He tilted his chin.
I continued, “Go look at yourself. All your skin is blue. Do you know why?”
I waited as he retreated to his room, looking himself over in a mirror.
“Because you’re not a warlock…or magical at all! You’re no different from anyone else. Just a mortal man, trying to be someone else by using potions.”
“That’s not true.” His hands squeezed into fists.
I didn’t stay to listen. I took a step back, then another, then turned to rush down the hall into my bedroom. Pulling out my dresser drawers, I threw all my stuff into my little enchanted suitcase, only stopping to wipe the tears when I could no longer see.
Through the door Roman’s voice was soft and humble. “You’re right that I have been using potions. I’m sorry I misled you…”
And that was all I needed to hear, I pulled all my witchy power and did the hardest spell, making myself disappear and reappear a few miles away at the train station. If I’d been older and stronger, I may have been able to get myself all the way home.
After buying my ticket, I sat on the station’s bench trying to relax my tense muscles. The first half-an-hour dragged on with angry and betrayed thoughts filling my head.
Maybe I was sick of being angry. Maybe I ran out of bad thoughts, but my outlook changed. I couldn’t stop staring at the platform outside the station’s window, remembering Roman and my first meeting. His awkward stance, the way he’d researched me and knew I loved enchanted roses. The beautiful ring that I still wore on my finger.
I twisted it and began to take it off, but as I slipped it to my knuckle, I stopped.
A familiar face caught my attention. Sylvia, the teenager with the dirty-blond hair and the alcoholic brother, sat beside me on the bench.
“How’s your brother doing?” I asked.
She smiled, her hazel eyes lighting up. “Good. Great, actually. You were right. It may have taken a little magic to show him the way, but he’s doing it, all on his own. He’s dedicated to a better life, and he’ll get there. I know he will. Like you said, Magic wasn’t the answer. It was who was on the inside that mattered most.”
More thoughts of Roman filled my head. Of our first dance and our first kiss. Of how he listened to every detail of the jobs I applied for. Of how he did little things, like brought me chocolates, did my laundry, and the way he knew I was thirsty and brought me water without asking. How we thought alike, both craving enchiladas on the same day.
Why wasn’t he a warlock? Everything would be perfect.
When I stood to board the train, I was more confused. I had feelings for him, a mere mortal. I understood how my ancestors diluted their DNA. You can’t choose who you fall in love with. You can’t force it; it just happens. Human, warlock, it didn’t matter.
I sat down on the seat, and more memories jumbled my vision. About having someone to go to the movies with. Someone to eat dinner with. Someone with such cute dimples and dark, dark eyes.
As the conductor made the last all-aboard call, I rose from my seat.
I didn’t care if he was mortal.
I didn’t care if he didn’t have powers.
It was who was on the inside that mattered most.
Roman was a great match for me, and I hoped I was a good match for him, too.
I pulled my suitcase down from the overhead compartment and rushed to the attendant.
“I need off,” I breathed heavy. “I can’t leave.”
With a nod, she opened the door. I flung myself down the steps, but the strap of my bag caught on the railing. It sent me toppling off the train and toward the ground in a big, graceful nose-dive.
Right before I hit, a soft cushion of air stopped me, scooping me up and lifting me to my feet. My heart raced, then beat faster when I looked forward, seeing Roman with his blue face standing on the platform. His hands rose into the air, palms glowing with magic.
The wisp of air set me down. As soon as my feet hit the pavement, I rushed toward Roman, meeting him on the steps.
“I’m sorry.” I shook my head and twisted my hands together. “I shouldn’t have tricked you.”
“I think I’m the one who needs to apologize. Yes, I was using potion recipes I found on Pinterest, but it’s not what you think.”
I thought to the cushion of air. Was that a potion, or something more?
“I never lied to you. I am a warlock. Pure-blood, but never thought I’d find a pure-blood witch to marry that interested me as much as you do. I knew about you well before you listed your profile on the Mail-Order Witch Facebook group. I’ve been watching your fundraising efforts in Witch-Way. Your speech at the last convention convinced me I needed to do something to preserve our kind’s dying magic. See…I’ve been…nervous, if you haven’t been able to tell. So nervous, I’ve been unable to perform.”
I raised an eyebrow.
He continued. “I’ve been using Pinterest potions to enhance my magic. I didn’t want you to think I wasn’t that powerful…That I wasn’t strong enough to be married to you. Your accomplishments are way more than I ever expected. Top of your charm-school college class, your leadership in the Witch-Way Charity, not to mention how influential your parents are. Way more than I thought I deserved, a high school graduate who struggled to land a decent job, but I understand if you want to leave. I hadn’t been honest, and I don’t have much to offer…” He waved a hand and his blue face turned back to peach.
“That’s just the thing,” I said, wrapping an arm around his torso. “I don’t care about any of that prestige. I never thought I’d find someone to love…and that hopefully would love me back. I was getting off the train to find you. To tell you that I pick you, magic or not. What I’m saying is that I want to be Mrs. Roman Sunward.”
He took me by surprise when his lips found mine. It was more than a peck; it was soft and gentle and full of promises. When we pulled apart, to a clapping crowd, he whispered. “I’ve been waiting my whole life for those words and with all my heart, I want you as my wife.”
This time, I didn’t wait for him. I formed my own cloud of air, lifting me off the ground and planted another kiss upon his lips.
The End
Did you enjoy this little adventure? If so, please check out Joynell Schultz’s other stories, from pregnant fairy godmothers to the wives of superheroes by visiting her website www.JoynellSchultz.com.
About the Author
Joynell Schultz loves interesting things. From driving a bright lime green SUV, having an awesome Great Dane as a pet, to an ever-changing list of hobbies. She’s a pharmacist by training, but is currently managing the family business of a zoo. Talk about interesting! From drones aggravating the cougar to the elk in rut. From baby goats being born to adopting a sheep raised in a second-story apartment, there’s always something fun going on. And that was just in one week!
In the little free time she has, she loves creating imaginary worlds to tell tales of human relationships.
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Shot to Spell
ReGina Welling & Erin Lynn
Summary
To Lexi Balefire, matchmaking witch, Valentine's Day is just like any other day only with a side of added pressure to make perfect matches. All she wants to do is get through it without thinking about her ex, and have the day over with as quickly as possible.
Neither of those things will be happening when she is forced to relive February the 14th until she gets it right.
Shot to Spell is a short story that takes place in the timeline of the Fate Weaver series but can be read as a standalone story.
1
I shoved the covers off and stumbled into the shower with only one eye open and not even all the way at that. A swath of rainbow-hazed, heart-shaped bubbles drifted out of my shampoo bottle, and I knew this was only the beginning of the holiday I’d be
en dreading for weeks.
It could be that all faerie godmothers are obsessed with hearts and flowers on February 14th, or maybe it’s only mine. As much as I love them, this was one year when I could do with a little less enthusiasm.
No, I’m not a bitter old hag who has never known true love—quite the opposite, actually. I am a matchmaker, so love is my stock in trade. In my world, every day is Valentine’s day. Except with less pressure to perform a romantic miracle. I mean, what am I, Cupid himself?
Well, I’m not.
I am his daughter, though, and I carry his bow and arrows, so I guess that makes me Cupid-adjacent.
Reaching into my closet, I grabbed an entire outfit in basic black. No pink. No red. Just unrelenting black to indicate my feelings this year. Why should I buy into the arbitrariness way some card company decided sales could be better in February and forced half the world into believing one day was more romantic than the rest?
My dad isn’t the cute little cherub portrayed on candy boxes either, in case you were wondering.
The scents of chocolate and roses filled the kitchen where the dance of the faerie godmothers was almost too much to take. I’m blessed with four of them, and they’re the proprietors, or should I say, perpetrators, of Enchanting Events, a party planning company. Hence the chocolate and roses.
“What’s for breakfast?” Please let it be pancakes, I thought. Pancakes are my go-to cure for grouchiness.
“Pancakes. Chocolate chip.” The news brightened my spirits until Terra qualified, “Heart-shaped.” Oh, bother.
“Never mind. I’ll grab something on the way to work.”
“Don’t be foolish, you love pancakes.”
“No. Just no. Make them any other shape, and I’m all over it, but not hearts. Not today. I can’t take it.”
Terra’s face changes when she gets annoyed. Her eyes flare like twin flames, her cheekbones fine down to razor sharpness, and you’d think after a lifetime of dealing with the fallout from faerie temper tantrums, I’d learn to avoid being the cause of one.
Probably never happen.
“A good breakfast is the best defense against a bad day.”
“You should embroider that on a pillow, but I’ll take my chances.” The flip comment earned me a narrow-eyed look, but Terra let it go without trying to teach me a lesson. Being Fae, her responses tend toward the literal, and being the elemental faerie of earth, when you get a dirty look from Terra, it frequently comes with actual dirt.
I didn’t have time to take a second shower, so I was thankful she’d let this one go.
“You should really listen to your godmothers, Lexi.” My familiar, Salem, lectured me through a mouthful of pancake.
“You’ve got a little something brown on your nose, there, Salem.” I hissed, chuckling to myself as I watched him lick the space between his thumb and forefinger and wipe at his nose in a fitting, feline gesture.
The scent of freshly brewed heaven called my name as I passed Java Java Java on the way to the office, and I couldn’t resist so I went inside to orchestrated chaos.
“Grande Caramel Macchiato. Wait, better make it a venti, double caff.” I gave my order to the barista wearing the Valentine version of the ugly Christmas sweater and moved toward the end of the counter where I hoped coffee would soon appear.
A flourish of music echoed through my head. Seeing as its preferred method of communication is music—often loud music—I’ve wondered if my dad used harp strings when he fitted the Bow of Destiny. Like today when my brain rang with the sound of a thousand violins.
“Okay, I get it. Lay off.” It wasn’t hard to figure out the bow’s intended target—the puffy coat-wearing redhead with the fabulous boots. The glittering, pink heart only I could see floated over her head and marked her as my next shooting victim.
If I hurried, there would be time to lance her heart with Cupid’s arrow before the perky little blond behind the counter finished decorating my coffee with caramel swirls.
To answer your next question: no, I did not yank out a four-foot long bow made of living gold and take aim at her right in the middle of a crowded coffee shop. I’m not a psychopath. That honor is reserved for the Goddess who lives inside me. The part of me that comes from my father’s gene pool. She’s the one who does the dirty work and, thankfully, no one but me can see her.
A graceful predator, my weapon-toting half slid out, took aim, and fired a golden arrow with perfect precision. The other half of my heritage kicked in just before the arrow hit and pinpointed the redhead for what she was. Another witch.
Wait, did I forget to mention how, on my mother’s side, I’m descended from a powerful line of witches? My name is Lexi Balefire, and I wear many hats—only one of them is pointed with a gleaming silver buckle above the brim. No one bothered to explain this to me until recently, but when mommies and daddies—if they are Cupid and a witch anyway—love each other very much, they make Fate Weaver babies like me.
Normally, I wouldn’t have been called upon to carry my father’s bow, but there were complications, family drama, and to make a long story short, I became the reigning Cupid.
A sudden tinkling noise issued from the puffy coat as my arrow passed through it on the way to the witch’s heart. I remember thinking something along the lines of how odd in the seconds before all hell broke loose. Except in very specific circumstances, my arrows are more metaphysical than physical in nature. In other words, they pass through items, and even hearts, without leaving a mark. For it to break the vial of potion the witch carried in an inside pocket was not business as usual.
Nor was the panic on the redheaded witch’s face when she saw the spreading stain on her coat. Coffee forgotten, I crossed the space between us and asked in a low tone, “What kind of potion was it?”
Her answer came with raised eyebrows and a grim twist of the lips. “Love.”
Of course, because what else would it be on Valentine’s day in a packed coffeehouse? Like ripples around a stone dropped in a calm puddle, the essence of love potion spread throughout the room leaving no one untouched. Well, except for me and…”What’s your name?”
“Dahlia Breedlove. From over in Hannigan Cove.”
“Lexi Balefire. What was in that potion?”
“The usual, brandy, cinnamon, rose, and of course my own special addition of—” Dahlia clapped a hand over her mouth. “Let’s just say it’s a family secret.”
“Oh for Hecate’s sake. Does it look like there’s time for playing coy?” By then, the potion had infiltrated the atmosphere in the coffeehouse and charged the whole place with some of love’s baser emotions. A sickly sweet scent permeated the air, and suddenly a squat, balding man behind the counter started to look a lot like a Magic Mike cast member. “Fine, you deal with this then.” I barreled past Dahlia and flung open the door before whatever pheromone-enhanced concoction she’d brewed could further alter my perceptions.
Outside, the chill washed the fuzzies out of my head, and I realized I needed to stick around and help clean up the mess. It was at least partly my fault. But I wasn’t going back inside without putting up some kind of decontamination barrier to keep all the love cooties away.
Hours later, having missed all my appointments for the day, in the seconds before the oblivion of sleep swallowed me whole, I vowed to spend every February 14th in a cocoon. For the rest of my life.
2
I shoved the covers off and stumbled into the shower with only one eye open and not even all the way, at that. A swath of rainbow-hazed, heart-shaped bubbles drifted out of my shampoo bottle, and I didn’t think anything of it until the scents of chocolate and roses assailed my nose at the top of the stairs.
“What’s for breakfast?” Please don’t let it be pancakes, I thought for the first time ever.
“Pancakes. Chocolate chip. Heart-shaped.”
Everything looked the same as it had the day before. Terra wore the same Kiss the Cook apron over the same red dress while the other
three godmothers added roses to the top of a three-layer torte.
“Er…I’ll pass.”
“Don’t be foolish, you love pancakes.”
“No time. Clients.” And a severe case of deja vu.
“A good breakfast is the best defense against a bad day.”
“You really should listen to your godmothers, Lexi.” Salem mumbled.
“Yeah, I think I heard that somewhere before.” I ran out of there like my butt was on fire.
I spent the entire walk into the city failing to convince myself everything I was seeing was not the same that day as the day before. The jogger in a blue jacket slipped on the ice, but caught his balance before falling, and then walked away like he meant to do that—again. The toy poodle dancing on the end of a hot-pink, rhinestone encrusted, patent leather leash did her business on the sidewalk—again.
Morbid curiosity drew my feet toward the coffee shop, the promise of clearing my mind with a hit of caffeine pulling me inside. Same ugly sweater, same madding crowd, and right in the middle of it stood Dahlia Breedlove with the glittering pink heart floating above her head.
Like everyone, I have those moments of insanity where I repeatedly run the vacuum over the piece of lint that won’t come up. I’ve even picked up the offending fluff, then put it back on the floor to try again. What I wasn’t going to do was shoot Dahlia with the bow this time. Nope. Not going to happen. A repeat of that disaster wasn’t on the menu. For once, I ignored the jangling melody playing in my head, took my coffee and walked away.
“Real mature,” I murmured when the bow blew me the stringed instrument version of a raspberry.
According to my schedule, I had a first meeting to engineer in a few minutes. Matchmaking clients only end up in my office as a last resort after trying and failing to find love on their own. Making the process less clinical is a priority; after all, who wants to tell their grandchildren the story of how they finally gave up and went to see a professional dating adviser?
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