by Louisa West
“Er—” she began, unsure of the situation. “Um… good skunks? I’ma... erm... just... gah!”
She took off running down the driveway, her long brown hair streaming behind her and the whiteness of her retreating form pale and ghostlike in the moonlight. She didn’t stop running until she was on the porch, and she looked back towards the road as she tried to catch her breath.
The skunk family was nowhere in sight, and Rosie ran over the incident in her mind. She took a long, steadying breath and leaned one hand on the porch railing. Surveying her front yard, Rosie remembered why she was out there in the first place. With a glance up at the sky, which held a fat moon but not a full one, she shrugged.
“Blessed be!” She said to no one in particular, before turning to take proper cover in the house.
Chapter 7
Rosie wasn’t sure that her hearth magic had even worked, but by the time she had crawled into bed, she’d was exhausted. The whirlwind of events since she and Maggie had left Atlanta had wrung her out and left her to dry. She fell into a deep sleep with strange dreams hovering on the edges of her consciousness.
She could pick out the sweet, round face of Tammy Holt, but the cheerful-seeming woman looked full of a sorrow that made Rosie ache. An egg hit Tammy on the side of the face, causing a deep purple bruise to spread across her eye socket and cheekbone like dark ink. The scene spun, blurring. Rosie watched it become a scene where Carol-Ann Wallace was sitting at a desk in her realtor office, reaching out to stroke a huge kangaroo that twitched its ears in response. And then there was Maggie, chocolate ice cream spread over her face, sitting on an old tire swing. ‘Mom?’ she called, each time the swing brought her towards Rosie. ‘Mom?’
“Mom?”
Rosie jolted awake, just in time to hear what sounded like an explosion and shouting out in the woods. The explosion caused a window somewhere in the house to shatter. Maggie shrieked from where she had been hovering in the doorway. Rosie gasped and leaped to her feet beside the bed.
“I'm here, Pumpkin,” she breathed, rushing to Maggie’s side. She pulled her close while straining her ears to hear what was going on. She pressed a rushed kiss to the top of her daughter’s head.
“Stay still, okay?” Maggie nodded as Rosie crept to the bedroom window, peeling back the curtains. She looked out across the dark expanse of lawn that led to the cottage.
A dull sooty glow lit up the woods beyond the drive, complete with a mass of smoke that rose into the pitch-dark sky. A chill came over Rosie as she watched the fire increase with intensity before her very eyes. She was shocked as several thoughts crowded her mind all at once. Was it a forest fire? The shouts she could still hear didn’t sound like the commands of a fire-fighting crew; they sounded angry. And then she realized that the fire was in the same clearing where Declan’s camper was.
Holy shit.
“Stay here,” she barked at Maggie, dashing past her to yank on her sneakers. “Lock the front door after me and get under my bed. Do not come out until I tell you to, okay?”
“I wanna come with you!” Maggie protested, eyes wide.
Rosie did up her second shoelace, straightened, and moved to place her hands on Maggie’s’ little shoulders. “Declan is in trouble, and I gotta go help him out. You need to stay here. I need you to do something important, okay?” She turned, snatching her phone from her bedside table before pressing it into Maggie’s hands. “I need you to get under the bed and then dial 9-1-1. Stay on the phone with them. Tell them our address, that there’s a fire and that there may be people hurt. Can you do that?”
Swallowing nervously, Maggie nodded.
“Good girl,” Rosie said approvingly, and then took off.
As soon as she was out of the cottage, the smell of smoke was thick in the air. There were a few more shouts, and she doubled her efforts to get across the lawn in record time. As she got closer to the clearing, bits of ash drifted through the air, clouding her vision. She coughed as she ran, desperate to breathe in more oxygen and less smoke. She wished she had stopped to get something to cover her mouth with, but she hadn’t thought that far ahead, so she pulled the neck of her t-shirt up instead.
The clearing was close now. She heard a strange whooshing sound as she approached; the shouting stopped. As she burst through the trees, she felt the heat of the fire rush up to her skin. And then Rosie heard a sound that made her feel like being sick.
A throng of engines started not too far away; the low, throaty growl of motorcycles. They revved a few times, and then she heard them peel away, leaving her in no doubt about who had instigated this attack.
The whooshing noise distracted her from looking in the direction of the motorcycle engines. It was only then that she saw Declan.
He stood right in the face of the fire. He was silhouetted against the raging flames that completely engulfed his camper. His feet were planted wide, his arms raised in defiance of the destruction raging before his eyes. The whoosh came from jets of water streaming right out of Declan’s palms, as forceful as the stream from any fire-truck hose. Rosie watched, transfixed, as he angled his powerful shoulders from left to right and back again, focusing the water on different parts of the fire.
There is no possible explanation for this, she thought. There is no real way he could just be shooting water out of his hands like canons.
She had been holding her breath, partly in shock and partly to avoid breathing in the smoke. Now that she was ready to inhale, the contaminated air caught in the back of her seared throat and made her start coughing. Declan turned. One jet of water vanished as though he might be ready to create a little fire of his own for anyone stupid enough to get in his way. When he saw it was Rosie, concern flooded his face, and the other jet ceased as well.
“What’re ya doin’ here?” he called to her. His long strides made short work of the ground between them as he crossed immediately to her side.
She coughed some more, bending double and resting her hands on her knees. He patted her on the back, gently at first and then more firmly in a bid to help her coughing. When she straightened, she noticed that the water had worked. The flames that still licked the insides of the camper were small, even though the outside was black.
“You,” she tried, and coughed again as she straightened.
“I’m fine,” he said quickly, pleased that she was concerned enough for his welfare to come bolting through the woods in the middle of the night to get to him in his hour of need. He shifted to slide an arm around her shoulders, meaning to draw her into him.
Rosie shrugged him off, taking a step back. “You—can do—magic!” she wheezed, her eyes wide.
Declan held his arms out, pretending to be hurt that she didn’t seem to want to fall into his well-muscled embrace like a damsel in distress. But he couldn’t hold the expression for long. Telltale crinkles appeared at the corners of his eyes, and before long, he fixed her with a slow, smooth grin.
“Look, I’ve been tellin’ you I’m a Witch King for a while now. S’not my fault ya don’t listen.”
She watched him for a while, ignoring his amusement at her ‘sudden revelation’ in favor of looking for something deeper. Understanding, perhaps? Her eyes flicked over his expression. When she finally came up empty-handed, she swallowed the foul taste in her mouth—whether it was ash or embarrassment remained to be seen. She didn’t like being made fun of for something that she couldn’t even fathom.
“A drunken stranger who sounds like the poster boy for Lucky Charms throws himself into my life, telling me that not only is magic real but that I can do it because I’m a Witch Queen.” Her voice dripped with sarcasm that was only mildly hindered by the smoke-infused husk in her tone. “And for some reason, it surprises you that I thought until three minutes ago that you were a total whack-job?”
Declan huffed a chuckle through his nose. He glanced away as though trying to make sure their invisible audience wasn’t paying attention and then leaned towards her.
&
nbsp; “You can play with my Lucky Charms any time you like,” he grinned, unable to hide his amusement at his own joke.
“Ugh!” Rosie replied, throwing up her hands and turning on her heel. “I have to get back to a terrified child who is hiding under my bed, calling the authorities. Thanks for your delightful company,” she threw over her shoulder.
“Wait—she what now?” The aura of mirth surrounding him poofed into non-existence as he scurried after her, the flames behind them lessening with each passing second.
“Fire department,” Rosie stated, ticking off a finger. “Sheriff’s department,” another tick, “paramedics. You name it, I told her to call them. And she’d have done it properly, too. She's watched enough You-Tube videos of kids who saved their parents' lives, Lord knows it!”
Declan muttered something under his breath. He paused and then rushed to catch up with Rosie again as she carved a path through the woods towards Fox Cottage.
“You’re sure about this? I don’t wanna put ya out.”
The medium-sized living room at Fox Cottage seemed small and crowded when there was a tall, strapping Irishman filling it. Rosie shook out the spare linens she had painstakingly laundered at the Kwik Kleen. She glanced at him as he looked around the room.
She didn't have money to get any knick-knacks, so the room was bare aside from what had been there when they moved in. An ancient floor lamp that looked like it was made in 1969 sat in the corner. An age-pitted mirror hung above the fireplace. A tiny TV that still had bunny-ear antennae was in pride of place.
And there, along the main wall, was the couch. It was perfectly serviceable, and Rosie loved the way it afforded her a pretty view of the front garden. The scene was visible through the net curtains in the large bay window that was begging for a window-seat to be installed.
But now that they were there setting Declan up for his first night of couch-surfing, she could see why he was hesitant. He was at least two feet too long for the couch for starters, and at least a foot too wide for it. It was lumpy on account of it being older than she was. Although she had cleaned it thoroughly, it was a weird mottled cream color covered with a pattern of strange green flowers. Rosie adored it, but she got why it might seem less than appealing.
The only reason Declan was even there was because she felt responsible for him now having nowhere to live.
“You’re not putting me out,” she repeated as she made the couch up for him. “It’s the least I can do.”
He peered at her curiously over his shoulder. “Aye?”
“Well, you’ve helped me out a few times now. In my mind, that makes us friends.” She tucked a lock of hair behind her ear. “And I’d like to help a friend if they needed me to.”
A few moments of silence settled between them. She almost regretted being so forthright in her estimation of him as a 'friend.' He shuffled a foot on the carpet, turning as if to take in the rest of the room. When his eyes came to rest on the fireplace, he appeared to find the change of topic he seemed to be looking for.
“Does this thing work?” He had crawled halfway into the fireplace and was squinting up the chimney. “I think it needs cleanin’.”
“Well, I’m sure there’s lots of things that need doing around the place,” Rosie said with false cheer. She fluffed the pillow she had commandeered for him from her own bed. “You’ll be able to get stuck in and lend a hand.”
She could hear his light chuckle drift up the flue, and she smirked as she finished setting up his makeshift bed. He joined her, plopping onto the couch and upsetting all the hard work she had done. She gave him A Look ™, but he patted the sofa next to him, suggesting she sit down.
“It's late,” she said.
“Doubt I'll be sleepin' much tonight anyway,” he said, and her guilt sprang up enough to be coaxed by his patting the couch again. She took a seat clear on the other side of the sofa.
“So.” Rosie could feel her heart pick up a beat just thinking about it. “What happened?”
“Your ex’s mates, I imagine.” Declan sniffed and leaned back on the couch. “They rocked up and brought me some Molotov cocktails to get the party started. Luckily, I was able to get out through the back window.” He brushed his thumb across the shorn beard on his throat. “Not too clever, that lot. Thank fuck.”
She shook her head. “I'm so sorry you got caught up in all this.”
He leaned closer to her. “Hey,” he said, trying to get her to look up at him. “I was already caught up in all this.” He shook his head and sighed. “We need to get ya some security sorted out.”
She bristled, leaping up from the couch. “I tried! I was up for hours last night looking at security systems that I can’t afford and security companies that don’t even service Mosswood—if I could afford those, that is. I even—” she trailed off and decided to start again. “I’m not sure what you expect me to do, exactly, on the salary I’m earning.”
“You even what?”
Realizing her mistake too late, Rosie turned to grab a pillow to fluff as a defense mechanism, but Declan was too quick for her. His large hand closed gently around her wrist, preventing her from exercising the diversionary tactic.
“Rosie.” She inhaled slowly and then turned her face away from him as she sat back down. “You even what?”
“I used hearth magic!” she confessed a touch more loudly than she had intended, and then followed up with a hushed explanation. “Or I thought I did, anyway. I found this ritual online involving salt and making a charm bag.”
Declan was staring at her, an unasked question lingering in his eyes. But there was something else there, too. Pride? Rosie deliberately looked away from him. His hand was so warm around her wrist, his skin against hers.
“It didn’t work,” she said to shoo the look of pride away.
“The hell it didn't,” he laughed. “Why'd they come to my caravan instead’ve ya house, then?” He grinned and shook his head. “Probably didn't make it past the mailbox.” Then he peered at her, and his grin morphed into a lop-sided smirk.
“Rosie… you need to be naked for a protection spell.”
Heat flooded her face, and she opened her mouth to say something but came up blank. He chuckled at her reaction, his hand still around her arm. He let his fingertips brush against the inside of her wrist as he let her go. Rosie felt herself shiver, but it wasn’t because she was cold.
She looked after his retreating hand, back to his face. “When I was doing the spell, I didn’t believe that it would work.”
“That’ll be why you broke ya window, then.” He thumbed over his shoulder and looked at the shards of glass she had swept into a corner. “You have to have intention for these things to work, love.”
“But I shocked Terry Holt and didn't even mean to,” she said, eyes seeking his for guidance. It was too surreal, and now that she had seen actual magic being performed, she couldn't brush it off the way she had with Terry.
“That was a heat of the moment thing,” he explained. “Natural talent, if you will. That all came from within you.” He smirked. “You probably felt right shagged after.”
She rolled her eyes. “Does everything have to relate back to sex with you?”
“Doesn’t have to,” he shrugged, his eyes twinkling. “It’s just more fun that way.” He gestured. “In all seriousness, though, that’s the difference. Charms and the like—hexes, curses, etcetera—they rely on the three I’s: intent, ingredients, incantation.”
Rosie gawked at him. “You’re not seriously telling me that there’s theory behind my allegedly being a witch, are you?”
Declan huffed and rubbed his fingers over his eyes and across the bridge of his nose. “There’s no allegedly to it. You’re important, Rosie. Not just to Maggie and me, but to the world. We need to make sure that you’re up to speed on what that means.”
She laughed. She couldn’t help it. She wasn’t sure if it was because the thought of her being a witch queen was ludicrous, or because she was
starting to believe that she might be one after all. “What exactly are you proposing? Witchery 101?”
Declan shrugged a shoulder. “Works for me. And 102 and 103. If your ex is willin' to set fire to things, you’re gonna need as much as I can teach ya.”
Rosie felt stunned all over again. She couldn’t believe that Randy would stoop so low as trying to murder someone. But if he was capable of attempted murder, what did it mean for when he eventually caught up with her?
Because now Rosie was convinced that he would catch up with her. The shadow surrounding her ex-husband got darker with each day. It pressed in on any light she tried to create in her life, and the gathering storm was unavoidable.
She was determined to stay and fight, and if Randy wasn't going to fight fair, maybe she shouldn't, either.
“Alright,” she said.
Declan blinked at her. “You mean it?”
She took a deep breath, gripping the edge of the couch. “Yeah. Let's do it.”
He let his gaze drop, looking her over, and then he nodded. “Alright. We'll start tomorrow.”
Chapter 8
His arms wrapped around her felt so good, pressing her into the bed and cuddling her to his chest. Her hands explored his trim chest and stomach, and she marveled at how chiseled he was under those flannel shirts he wore. When one of his hands grasped her backside, she moaned. He dipped his head so that he could hear her pleasure better, his breath falling in short, desperate bursts against the sensitive skin at her collarbone.
“Heavy lies the head that wears the crown,” he murmured against her breast as he nuzzled it, moving further down.
“What?” she asked, sitting upright.
Her room was the same as it had been hours beforehand, lit by the soft glow of a night-light she kept on in case she had to check on Maggie. She looked at the bed to her left and found it empty, breathing a ragged sigh of relief mixed with frustration. She was alone, but the lingering sense of breathlessness and euphoria had her blushing anyway.