No Chance in Spell

by ReGina Welling

  Though the vision played out in excruciating detail, it passed in the blink of an eye and no one seemed to notice I'd gone blank for half a second. “Thank you for your business.” Emily dismissed me like any other customer, and Hannah’s frown deepened. I gave her a wink to let her know I was on the job, and she winked back. Cute kid. No way was I letting her have a dismal future.

  The tug of my LPS pulled me across the square and down the path toward the parking lot. Another two minutes and I'd have missed my chance to lay eyes on Hannah's father as he slid behind the wheel of a beat-up truck. As it was, I only caught enough of a fleeting glimpse to recognize him from the photo she'd shown me.

  Well, that should make things easier, I thought. Or maybe not.

  My watch said I'd been gone longer than planned, but when I passed back by her booth, a glowing symbol popped out of thin air over Emily's head. It was the same symbol I’d seen above Joshua Owens. It had to be a sign.

  Duh, it’s a symbol, by its very nature, that makes it a sign.

  Quit worrying about semantics, Lexi, and get on with things.

  Don’t tell me you don’t argue with yourself sometimes, too. I can’t be the only one.

  With Joshua, I couldn’t be certain whether the symbol appeared before or after I’d winged my arrow at him. To be honest, I hadn't been paying close enough attention. But, there was a symbol, and shooting him had turned out so well, it must mean I should do the same for Emily.

  If anyone needed magical intervention, it was this family, and they were going to get it.

  No more of this wishy-washy wondering who was in charge of my Fate Weaving destiny. I am the carrier of the bow. It will respect my wishes.

  It did, too. I let the power flow through me to the secret place in the depths where the bow lingered and called it to life. Like turning on a faucet, it was that easy. And natural—it felt like the most natural thing in the world. Demigod Lexi stepped out from my body like a badass twin sister, her almond-shaped eyes glowing with pink fire. I don’t think I’ll ever get used to seeing things other people can’t—knowing things other people don’t. An invisible rope of energy flowed between my astral self and me as if I could tug her back inside if I so desired. That was new.

  This time, the choice was mine. My goddess peered at me over her shoulder, the question in her eyes. Confident in the memory of what happened when my arrow struck Joshua Owens, I wanted to feel that shift in the cosmos again; needed it with a hunger I hadn’t anticipated.

  Demigod Lexi shrugged before fitting arrow to string with the very tips of her fingers. She pulled back with as much ease as if she were handling the five-pound draw weight of a child’s practice bow. Emily’s back straightened, and her eyes turned stormy as soon as the arrow made contact with flesh, but she shook her head as if to clear an uncomfortable thought and carried on with business.

  Her heart didn’t skip a beat. The stars didn’t align. And I sure as heck didn’t feel like I’d done the world a favor.

  Not what I expected, and it didn’t seem as though the Bow of Destiny was pleased either, judging by the slow rendition of “Can’t Hurry Love” pounding loudly in my ears. If it had been a car stereo, I’d have yanked it from the dash and chucked it out the window.

  Emily was already married to her soul mate, so her reaction probably would be a little understated compared to Joshua’s. All I’d tried to do was reinforce that connection. It can’t hurt to freshen things up from time to time, right?

  Demigod Lexi shook her head at me before fading into the ether.

  Great, now I was mad at myself. Sort of.

  My life gets more complicated every day.

  Chapter Twelve

  WHEN I PADDED DOWNSTAIRS for breakfast the next morning, my eyes were full of sleepy seeds, and I hoped a good, strong cup of coffee would wash the images of a nightmare from behind my lids.

  In the dream, I’d been running; endlessly running from a dark, hooded figure on a giant black steed. In one hand he carried a scythe, and in the other a long chain, on the end of which hung a glowing lantern full of souls. I got the distinct impression he wanted to add mine to his collection and woke up in a pool of sweat.

  Mercifully, the kitchen was quiet for a change. Grateful for a reprieve from the insanity that was the Balefire household, I did a little dance across the floor. The godmothers—sans Vaeta, as far as I could tell—were out organizing another spectacular event, Salem had taken Pyewacket fishing, and I couldn’t have guessed where Mag was if I tried. Gran, however, I found hunched over a tray table in the parlor, staring intently at the television while devouring a plate of eggs in a nest.

  I stopped to watch her dip a toast round into the runny yolk and pop it into her mouth with a look of sheer pleasure on her face, but I wasn’t sneaky enough to have gone without notice.

  “Thank the goddess so many people are raising free range chickens again; this tastes just like the way your great-grandmother used to make it. Whatever was in that carton in the fridge tasted like dirt, but Mrs. Chatterly has a couple of hens in her backyard, and she owed me a favor.” She took a sip of milk to wash it all down, “if only she had a milk cow out there as well. What have they done to it? I can taste the plastic from the carton and not much else. Yuck.”

  “There’s a guy at the farmer’s market who sells milk in glass bottles. I wish I’d have known to pick some up when I was there yesterday. Come with me next time.” I’d never gone on an outing with her before, and shopping with another woman always opens a window onto their temperament and personality.

  She waved another piece of toast. “Just say when.”

  I fixed myself a cup of coffee and, curious to see what held her rapt attention on the screen, joined Gran on the couch.

  Apparently, Clara liked her soaps, since the DVR was full of Days of Our Lives and The Young and the Restless. Shaking her head in disgust, she checked the clock and switched to the morning news, “I’d really like to know what happened to Reva Shayne, but it seems they’ve canceled Guiding Light while I was...gone.”

  “Well, it did run for several decades, so I suppose it was time.” I murmured quietly. "I can look it up online if you want."

  “What is it, dear?” Gran’s witchy senses, or maybe just her womanly ones, zeroed in on my distracted state of mind, and I’d already learned once she caught a scent, she’d sniff out the details like a bloodhound.

  “Nothing, really. Just a dream. I’ve been feeling a bit out of sorts ever since I repaired the Bow of Destiny; like maybe I need to be watching my back. I think it just came out in the form of a nightmare.”

  Gran shot me a scathing look, “Don’t underestimate the importance of your subconscious. There's a goddess inside you, and she might be trying to tell you something. It’s not easy being what you are, and there are those out there who would love nothing more than to stop you from matching one more soul—and they wouldn’t raise an eyebrow at using physical force to do so. Weaving fates is a dangerous game.”

  How? I wondered. My job seemed menial at best. See an unattached soul, shoot an arrow. The bow or the fates or someone else chose the targets and I wasn't interacting with them in any other way. Frankly, being a Fate Weaver was boring compared to when I’d happily matched the lovelorn.

  Before I had a chance to respond, the petite blond from channel five news flashed up on the screen, carrying a rehearsed expression of empathy, “In local news, the police have issued a statement in the death of a local woman named Tansy Blankenship. No cause of death could be determined. Police found no evidence of foul play, but have stated that autopsy results on the twenty-six-year-old woman have not yielded enough evidence to rule the death as natural or accidental. We’ll keep you updated as we learn more about the case. I’m Alicia Simpson, reporting for channel five news.”

  Gran’s eyes widened, and she pulled a weathered coin out of her pocket, pressing her index finger to the raised initials on the back that would let Aunt Mag know she was needed, and
then turned slowly to face me, “Get dressed; it’s time to rally the troops. We’ll continue this discussion later.”

  CLARA

  It’s a common misconception that it takes thirteen witches to make up a traditional coven. In truth, a coven is the size it needs to be. Thirteen or thirty members makes no difference unless you’re the person in charge and the higher the number, the more frequent the headaches. Standing before mine, I searched every face for subtle clues to how many might have my back and which of the witches would only stand behind me if there were a good chance of pushing me off a cliff.

  At a quick tally, I judged my approval rating to be somewhere around 60 percent—give or take a few undecideds. Only Winsome Warner, a complete mouse of a woman, was so flabbergasted at the sight of me she tripped over her own shoes on her way into the room and smacked Violet Bloodgood on the backside with a vividly-printed purse the size of a shopping bag. It seemed the news about my miraculous resurrection hadn’t spread all the way to the smallest tendrils of the grapevine.

  Whispers slid from the corners of mouths set into faces paled or reddened by the sight of me, but when I stepped in front of Calypso Snodgrass and waited for everyone to take a seat, silence fell so hard you could almost hear it thump on the floor.

  Calypso’s daughter, Serena, sat next to her mother, her nose wrinkled in distaste. I imagined she’d rather be anywhere but inside this house with this particular assemblage of women. In fact, she looked like she was about to throw up which, considering she was still in her first trimester, might be an accurate assessment.

  My eyes narrowed at the loose peasant blouse Serena wore, and the absence of any of the coven members fawning all over her cemented my conviction that she hadn’t announced her pregnancy yet. The girl wouldn’t meet my gaze, even though she’d been my most frequent visitor over the years, and I probably knew more about Serena’s life than Calypso did.

  “I'm sure some of you are surprised to see me,” I let my dry tone punctuate the sentiment as my gaze traveled around the room. Yes, I noted plenty of surprise displayed along with a host of other emotions as I counted how many happy, upturned faces balanced out the number of dismayed frowns.

  “I'm surprised to be here, all things considered.” I directed a warm smile at Lexi, who leaned against the doorway to the parlor and watched the proceedings with caution. Never having been an active part of the group, she wasn’t sure of her place, and I didn’t blame her for that.

  My sister, always a solitary witch, also sat somewhat apart from the rest and let her crossed arms and fierce expression speak volumes. I’d asked her to observe only and estimated the chances of her remaining silent at somewhere around 50/50. Respecting my need for a coven was no promise she would respect the group.

  “What did you...how did you? But, Clara, you were stoned. You killed,” Winsome’s voice dropped to a scandalized whisper, “your daughter.”

  “No, she didn’t.” Bless her little heart, Violet spoke right up. “Sylvana is alive and probably out wreaking havoc right now.” Interesting blend of defense and condemnation. “Catch up, Winnie. That news is positively ancient.”

  “Then who did you kill?” Winsome reached conclusions with great difficulty and very little speed. “You’re supposed to be dead.”

  “Clearly, I'm not.” I gestured to myself for emphasis. “My daughter and I had a slight magical mishap in the midst of a heated discussion.” The details of which, I had no intention of sharing. “And I was the victim of my own bad intentions.”

  “You were stoned. You killed.”

  “Keep repeating it, Winnie, but that won’t make it fact. Let my experience be a beacon of truth for you all.” I raised my voice slightly. “The strongest of emotions can color your intentions black, and two angry witches in the throes of a heated discussion can create unpredictable results. I’ve spent the last twenty-five years in a granite prison. A lesson to remember and a cautionary tale you should all keep in mind. No one died that day.”

  With a tilt of my head, I tossed a verbal bomb, “Unlike today, when one of our numbers really is dead, and not from natural causes.” Notably absent from the proceedings were Letitia Blankenship and her cousin, Hattie.

  “Are you saying you killed poor Tansy?” Poor Winnie. Dimmer than a blown-out candle.

  “How many times do I need to say it? I. Didn’t. Kill. Anyone. If I had, I’d still be made of stone. You can see me standing here in front of you, right? Do you need to touch me to make sure I’m warm and breathing?” My voice rose in frustration while several of the assembled witches shushed Winsome loudly.

  Despite the suspicion aimed at me from certain factions, being among the coven soothed some of the raw places inside me. “While I understand the temptation to cause harm, I’m not a killer.”

  Having waited long enough to measure the response, the woman who had taken control in my absence nudged me aside. “Thank you for clearing the air, Clara. Now, if you would please take a seat.” She indicated a ladder-backed chair to her left, pulled a gold-plated pen and a clipboard from the messenger bag slung over one shoulder.

  “There are a few questions we’d like you to answer before we consider what, if any, position you will retain here in the coven.”

  “Thank you, Calypso, but I called this unofficial meeting to talk about the tragic death of Tansy Blankenship, not to stand trial for imagined transgressions.” In my own home, no less. The nerve.

  On a typical day, Calypso Snodgrass looked like someone had permanently mounted a pickle under her nose—or shoved one where the sun doesn’t shine. Her sour face matched an equally sour disposition, and I wondered what kind of coup she had pulled off to rise to the position so quickly.

  “Calling meetings falls within my duties as high priestess. You should have followed protocol and contacted me first.”

  “Official meetings. This is not one, and would you have convened the coven if I asked you to?”

  “I see no reason for alarm. The girl’s death hasn’t been ruled murder.”

  “Thank you for making my point, and if you’ll indulge me, I’ll make another. The role of high priestess is largely ceremonial, mainly to do with providing moral support where needed, and we don’t adhere to a set of bylaws. Therefore, any coven member can convene a meeting if he or she wishes to do so.”

  A shrug of her narrow shoulders dismissed my objection. “I’m sure we’d have come around to discussing the untimely death of Ms. Blankenship in time.” She sniffed. “You’ve been a very naughty girl, Clara.”

  My eyebrows shot up to my hairline. I’m at least a hundred years older than Calypso, and her attempt to talk down to me would not be forgotten. Or forgiven.

  “As I’ve said, I was the victim of a magical accident, and there’s no need for more explanation. I don’t answer to you.” My glance included the collected group and lingered.

  Like a Pitbull, Calypso refused to let it go.

  “If you wouldn’t mind, I think we’d all appreciate hearing the exact details. Unless your memory has gone hazy during the last twenty-five years of sleeping in a stone cocoon.” Calypso leaned forward as if to brace herself for a particularly dirty piece of gossip.

  “Sleeping? No, not exactly.” Deliberately, I directed a series of brief but meaningful looks at a few of the women who had come to babble out their misdeeds in my stone ear during my statue-like days and confirmed their worst fears. “I heard and saw plenty.”

  The ploy worked and Calypso lost support like she was the sinking Titanic and the rest of the witches were rats.

  “Now, Calypso, I don’t think we need to go dredging up Clara’s painful past. It’s enough that no one was killed and I, for one, am thankful to have her back with us safe and sound.” Lobelia Morningside, for all that hers had been the most salacious of confessions, lifted her chin and returned my gaze with a resigned shrug. “In fact, I’m hoping she will consider returning to her former position as high priestess.”

  The perfect
way to make sure I stayed quiet about her sexual transgressions along with everything else I’d heard. High priestesses are the souls of discretion. Maybe not Calypso, but in general.

  Gasps and more than a few snorts followed the bold statement, and I stole a look at the current leader out of the corner of my eye. If it had been physically possible for steam to come out someone’s ears, Calypso Snodgrass would have given her best impression of a teakettle about to whistle.

  “Thank you for the suggestion, Lobelia, but I think we’d all agree a period of observation is in order—just to make sure Clara hasn’t suffered any ill effects from her experience before we consider making any changes to the leadership of the group.” Calypso turned to me, “I have to wonder what kind of psychological problems your ordeal,” she may as well have made air quotes, “might have brought on, and we’ve all felt the results of whatever is going on with the Balefire lately.”

  On cue, heads swiveled toward the fireplace where the Balefire flickered cheerfully.

  Some women will smile sweetly while they drive the knife deep into your back, and Calypso was one of those women. “Should we assume you’re taking steps to ensure these disturbances will not continue?”

  She’d issued an open challenge to my past authority wrapped in an insult to my mental state, and I was in no position to make assurances at the moment, so I changed the subject.

  “I came here to talk about the murder of Tansy Blankenship.” A hush rippled over the room from left to right, and all eyes were on me.

  “Murder?” Someone gasped. Mag gave me a pointed look and a deliberate, but barely noticeable head shake. She didn’t want me to mention the demon for some reason.