No Chance in Spell

by ReGina Welling

  “She beat me back to Port Harbor by a matter of hours and gave Lexi the Stone of Blood. I missed my chance to put a stop to it.”

  “It didn’t occur to you to break the spell on me so I could handle Lexi?”

  “It occurred. Not in the cards. It had to be Lexi or no one.” Finally, Mag lifted her head so I could see the tears she had been holding back. “Even knowing what I did, I traded your freedom for Lexi’s safety, and I don’t blame you if you hate me forever.”

  So many things clicked into place. “Is that why you never visited me? You must have known I could hear you, or at least considered the possibility.”

  The only sound in the room was the creak of her chair until she allowed, “Shame presents itself in many forms, sister dear. Haven’t you ever feared to speak a truth out loud?”

  Resisting an urge to indulge in a moment of extreme sentiment, I settled for patting Mag on the arm and mumbling something about it all working out the way it was supposed to in the end and that we needed to figure out our next move. Not that I had a clue in spell what that should look like.

  I reached for her knitting bag. “Unpack your things and stay.”

  “In this madhouse?” Mag scoffed and yanked the bag out of my reach.

  “Better than being bored, and I think you’ll admit I've become something of an expert on defining boredom. Shall we pay a condolence call on Letitia? On the way, maybe take a look at what happened to poor Tansy?”

  If there was anything Mag found irresistible, it was a mystery she could solve.

  “You just want to get the word out that you’re back and ready to take on Calypso Snodgrass.”

  I grinned back at my sister. “That might be part of my motive, but it’s not all.” The smile fell off my face. “You’re feeling it too, right?”

  “What? That Tansy’s death is an omen? I don’t need my crystal ball to see the handwriting on that wall. Speaking of which, I’m in the market for a few new supplies. Fancy a trip to Athena’s?” Mag’s lips twisted with wry humor. “I could stand to do some shopping.” She gestured toward her pitiful bag of possessions and I knew our little tiff was over.

  Standing in one place for so long had given me time to think, and I wanted to reconnect with my sister. Still, I wasn't above a little teasing.

  “Well, I didn’t like to mention it, but you could use a change of clothes. Something not quite so ...” The muumuu-style dress carried a sheen that marked it as some sort of polyester blend, zipped up the front, and was covered with tropical flowers larger than my head. The terms hideous, grandmotherly, and shapeless all sprang to mind and were dismissed. I wanted her to change her clothes, not get mad at me. “Casual.” Seemed the safest bet.

  “Excuse me for not wearing the latest styles, and what about you? You look like a throwback to the eighties.”

  “That would be the last time I bought anything new.” Dust dry, the words fell off my tongue.

  It was always this way with us—probably the same with most sisters who bicker over nothing and would still die for each other. Putting a stop to the pettiness before we ended up fighting like a passel of faeries, I dragged Mag to my room to rummage through my clothes for anything devoid of shoulder pads and geometric, color-blocked patterns.

  We were not going out in public with her in the next best thing to a nightgown.

  “No jeans. I can’t abide the things,” Mag specified. “And those high-waisted ones are way out of style.”

  “Actually, they’re back in. Haven’t you noticed what the kids are wearing these days.” I tossed her a pair of black leggings and a long white tee with flowers on the front. “Here. This is the best I can do.”

  After struggling into the clothes, Mag faced the mirror and grumbled, “I look like Barbie’s grandmother,” and I had to hide a snort behind a fake cough that didn’t fool her in the least, but should have earned me a few points for trying. I opted for the pair of the jeans she’d scorned and covered up the dated front by leaving my blouse untucked.

  “We’ll hit Zayres on the way back,” I pulled my purse from the hidden recesses of my closet and checked to see if the wad of cash I’d stuffed in there the day before my unfortunate incarceration remained.

  “How much you got there?” Mag smirked at me.

  “Couple hundred. That ought to do it.”

  Now it was her turn to snort, and she didn’t even make an attempt to hide the sound. “Zayres went out of business years ago, and you don’t have enough there to do any damage unless we’re going to a secondhand store. Welcome to the new world, Sis. Is there any more where that came from?”

  Funny how the world moves on when you’re standing still.

  “I can’t believe we had to drive this thing,” Mag grumbled from the passenger’s seat of Terra’s van. “Tell me again why we couldn’t just skim from here to there.”

  “There’s nothing like the feeling of a powerful piece of machinery in your hands.” Not that Mag would know anything about that, having never learned to drive. There are faster ways for those of us with enough power and skill, but I wanted to look out the windows and let the breeze blow through my hair.

  “Park it somewhere inconspicuous at least. Might as well wave a flag and have a parade. Draw less attention. Stupid thing looks like a clown’s wardrobe.”

  Sighing, I did as she asked even though it had been years since Mag retired from actively pursuing rogue magic. She might still have an enemy or two floating around, though I doubted that was the case, and her worries were nothing more than old habits and an overinflated sense of propriety.

  “The crime scene has already been examined and the park cleared for reopening. We’re not doing anything wrong.”

  Mag raised an eyebrow, “We don’t need to be doing anything wrong to stick out like a sore thumb.”

  Every step of the last twenty feet between the car and the square of earth where Tansy Blankenship’s body had been found evoked the same skin-crawling sensation I remembered feeling when I was four years old and convinced something evil lived in my closet. Not even the sun’s warmth banished the growing coolness that pebbled my flesh and sent a shiver through my limbs.

  “You feel it, too?” Mag slowed to a standstill and inhaled as though scenting the air.

  “I’d have to be a complete null to miss it.” Hate prickled across my skin. The kind of hate that tiptoed through the world and aimed itself toward me and all of my kind.

  “It’s not possible, they're all dead, and I should know because this,” Mag circled a hand in front of it to indicate the wrinkles and signs of advanced age on her face, “was how I paid for enough magic to make witchkind safe from the last of the Raythe.”

  Maybe not. "Unless there has been another one born since you retired."

  For the first time, Mag’s demeanor matched her frail appearance and it worried me how fast she turned pale and shaken. Any witch willing to give up her long-lived youth was a witch of great power and even greater heart. Witches can live for hundreds of years without aging at an equivalent pace, which is why I’m over 200 and still look like Lexi’s slightly older sister. It’s a fringe benefit meant to allay the burden of keeping the Unseelie court of Faerie from crossing into and wreaking havoc on our realm. Long story short, gifts can be taken away as easily as they were given.

  In another minute, she'd pulled herself together again. "There have been no reports. I'm sure I'd have heard."

  “Have I ever told you how much I admire you?”

  “What? Am I dying?” Mag swiveled her head to get a better look at herself, and I was happy to see some of the color return to her face.

  “Shut up. I'm not kidding, and you’re not dying. Not ever.” I dusted off my hands even though they weren’t dirty. “Now, let’s get to work and figure out what we’re facing. If it is a Raythe, we’re all in danger.”

  “It can't be. This is something else and my money's on it being a demon.” Mag lifted the voluminous shirt to reveal a tool belt of s
orts that she’d wrapped around her waist. No wonder she looked so chunky around the middle and walked as if she carried the weight of the world; she had a complete arsenal tucked into that thing.

  Potion bottles peeked out over the leather loops that secured them to the outer surface, which looked like it could have been made from tanned dragon hide. Crystals hung in cages made from knotted string alongside pouches I could only assume carried whatever herbs and powders she deemed necessary for working magic on the fly. An athame and a boline rode special-made holsters, and a pair of wands tucked into their own carriers on the opposite side.

  “Nice piece of kit. Where’d you get it?” While Mag had crazy skills in the craft, outside of knitting she hadn’t ever been what you’d call crafty.

  “Custom made by an old...acquaintance.” My immutable sister blushed.

  “An old boyfriend, you mean?” Evil still stained the air, but this piece of info was too much to let pass without prying a little. Mag liked to keep the juicy parts of her personal life hidden, even from me.

  “I prefer men to boys, now get your head out of your hormones and help me collect some evidence.” I suppressed a smirk, pulled out my wand, and tapped it lightly against the glass potion bottle she handed me. The bottle made sucking sounds as I waved it around to collect as much essence of evil as it would hold.

  We spent a little time examining the area, and while Mag continued collecting samples, I ranged out to see if I could pick up any sign of a trail leading away from the scene of the crime. After crashing through the underbrush and getting tangled up in some thorny bushes, I concluded the twenty-foot radius we’d observed on our way in held up in a perfect circle with no break anywhere that I could find, even after a second rotation around its edge.

  Heart heavy, I returned to where Mag was stowing away the last of her bottles with precise, but vicious motions that betrayed strong emotions.

  “Find anything?”

  “Dead end and not a single sign of a casting circle.” I picked a twig out of my hair and tucked tousled strands behind my ear.

  Grave-faced, Mag headed for the van. That she didn't even try for the driver's seat was a sign. “Let’s go then. I need to get to the workshop."

  Halfway there, she stopped and tilted her head to the side.

  “That poor girl. Can't you feel the terror she left behind?” Mag’s abilities in the divination department came along with a heightened sensitivity to psychic energies. A ghost could sit on my right shoulder, and I’d never have a clue, but I didn’t need a ghost to tell me Tansy’s sadness had settled over the clearing like a pall. I shivered, took my sister’s arm and led her back to the van. “I can’t stop thinking what if it had been...”

  “Lexi. I know.” I pushed back against the mental image that rose unbidden. First rule of witchery—and it goes without saying that this applies to everyone—is that what you concentrate on most is what will manifest in your life. Positive or negative. Life comes with this rule built in, and you can call it magic or positive thinking or whatever you want, but it pays to respect the process. “It wasn’t, and we need to put that out of our heads.”

  “We’re going to have to decide what to do about her at some point.” Shifting back to our earlier conversation, Mag kept her tone neutral.

  “It’s a bit late, don’t you think? Still, I think we should keep this little fishing expedition under wraps. She has enough trouble following her as it is.”

  “She needs to know what she’s up against.”

  “Maybe, but not today.”

  The shopping trip and all thought of offering condolences forgotten, I drove slowly toward home.

  Chapter Seven

  LEXI

  Gran and Aunt Mag blew through the door like a hurricane, bringing with them a gust of crisp, early autumn air that tossed a pile of month-old mail off the entryway table. Several forgotten credit card bills fluttered to the ground, and I silently thanked Flix for setting up automatic payments on all my accounts.

  “We’ve got work to do, follow us.” Mag flicked her eyes and a withered finger toward the parlor.

  “What kind of work?” I asked, trotting behind like a curious toddler or an obedient Jack Russel Terrier.

  Mag fixed me with a stare hot enough to wilt lettuce, and Gran jabbed an elbow into her waist, “Don’t pay any attention to your ornery old aunt. We might have a lead on what happened to Tansy Blankenship.”

  The thought of the witch’s unfortunate death wiped the smile off my face as I reached for the flame-concealed lever that would let us all into the space behind the fireplace. Something in the vicinity of Mag’s waist clinked heavily as she passed behind the stone facade.

  I soon found out the source of the sounds when she pulled a collection of palm-sized potion bottles from a belt strapped beneath the gaudy t-shirt she sported with more panache than you might expect.

  “What on earth is in those?” I scrunched up my nose at the sight of what looked like brown sludge if brown sludge were a gaseous substance. Anything that can look like smoke and mud at the same time is extremely suspect in my book.

  “Not exactly sure, but the fact that it’s already begun to solidify should tell you plenty.”

  I stared at Aunt Mag blankly and received a look of utter disgust in return. “I keep forgetting you know nothing.”

  “That’s what I tried to tell you,” Salem chimed in, having slipped in through the fireplace in cat form without us noticing and then flickering into his human body—fully dressed, I noted with a mix of irritation and relief.

  On further inspection, I decided Salem’s outfit looked quite spiffy, and when Pyewacket trotted through the fireplace behind him, I realized why. One look at her sleek fur, and he seemed to gain an inch of height along with a few more around his chest. She curled up on a cushion near the fire, and even though he continued talking, his eyes flicked her way every few seconds.

  “Only one kind of vapor turns viscous like that—essence of demon.” He lectured with even more zeal than usual. Salem loves an audience, but I could have kicked him for pointing out my ineptitude in front of the one assembled before us now.

  “You mean it was a demon that killed Tansy?” I squeaked.

  “Possibly,” Gran’s voice was cautious, “All we really know is that there was a demonic presence in the location where she was found. Death attracts all sorts of creatures so I wouldn’t be surprised if we found traces of multiple species.”

  “We must be thorough. Everything leaves a signature. This is magical forensics, and far more accurate than anything you’ll see on CSI.”

  “I love that show!” Gran exclaimed. “Though I never imagined Sam Malone as a silver fox.”

  “Clarie, you’re dating yourself,” Mag rolled her eyes, “Poor Lexi doesn’t even know what you’re talking about.”

  “We have cable. I’ve seen reruns of Cheers. Can we focus here? There’s a dead witch and possibly some kind of demon skulking about, and you two are discussing canceled shows and prime time television.” I admonished.

  Gran sighed, “You’re right, Lexi. We’re sorry.” If I detected a note of sarcasm, I’d never mention it out loud. Salem had the good sense to stay out of the conversation altogether. I knew he despised cop shows almost as much as he abhorred dilly-dallying when it came to working magic.

  Something short of properly chagrined, Mag went to work, and Gran explained what she was doing in a way that made me feel as though she were teaching a class of third graders. Assuming my education was well in hand, Salem catted out and curled up in a ball as close to Pyewacket as he could without actually touching her. Even though it looked like he was dozing, I could tell his whiskers were tuned in to her very movement.

  “Your aunt is a master of alchemy, which is classified under the branch of—”

  I cut her off in an attempt to prove I wasn’t a complete dolt.

  “The branch of elemental magic, involving the manipulation of naturally-occurring substances,”
I recited. “Salem says it’s easier to understand than the mental branch and easier to explain than arcane magic.”

  “He’s correct, though that’s something of an oversimplification. Mental magic comes from within the witch or wizard; it’s innate. You can’t learn telekinesis, for example; you’re either born with the ability to move objects using only the power of your mind, or you’re not. Same with divination and capacity to create illusions. But, you can learn a spell or brew a potion with similar effects.”

  At least her recitation distracted me from what we were testing. Plus, it was good to learn from someone who’d actually been there and done that.

  “Arcane magic—which encompasses such practices as summoning, binding, enchanting, and charms—involves harnessing as-yet unknown forces to accomplish a similar goal.

  Mag has been trying to bridge the gap her entire life. She believes those forces can be analyzed using the principles of the alchemical—or scientific—method. If we can isolate all of the traces found at the scene of Tansy’s death, for example, we can determine what branch of magic killed her. And that will tell us, first and foremost, whether she was murdered using magic or sorcery.”

  I already knew sorcery was abhorred in the witch community. A sorcerer is a person lacking innate magical talent—one who harnesses the power of another being and perverts the magic for his or her own gain.

  My mind clicked into motion, and suddenly I understood what was so concerning. “You’re trying to figure out whether this was an outside attack on witches, or if Tansy was killed by one of our own.”

  The two older witches exchanged a look I couldn't read.

  “There is no good conclusion here, but we’d certainly prefer if Tansy had tussled with a supernatural predator. I realize that sounds counterintuitive, but the alternatives are humans or witches, and neither bodes well for the future. It would mean we’re either being split from the outside or splintered from within; either way, figuring out who’s holding the ax is priority number one.”