No Chance in Spell

by ReGina Welling

  “Can’t you handle one day without me playing referee?”

  “Oh, get over yourself. There’s a situation, and your grandmother needs you.” She barely got the words out before I was up and sprinting toward the sliders overlooking Kin’s back yard from his living room. I heard the pounding of his feet right behind me. Good man.

  A part of my brain recorded that the front door hung ajar, but I was already past it before the fact registered with the rest. Excited voices drew me toward the parlor where the Balefire flickered in a manic dance that sent more puffs of smoke to color the ceiling with soot stains I feared would become a permanent reminder of the past month.

  “...not since last night according to Serena.” Violet Bloodgood’s tone sounded unnaturally strident to my ear. “You don’t think she’s in danger, do you?”

  “How should I know? I have other things to do besides keeping tabs on the habits and whereabouts of Calypso Snodgrass,” Clara’s annoyance came across loud and clear. “Shouldn’t you be gathering the coven together to decide how best to proceed? I can’t imagine why you’d come here. Calypso made it quite clear my services were no longer required.” She didn’t outright tell Violet to piss off, but the woman would have to be really stupid not to pick up on the dismissive tone.

  “Clara Balefire, I’m surprised at your lack of concern. Where else would we go? With Calypso gone, you have to take over the coven,” Millie perched on the edge of the sofa, her hands nervously fluttered against the purse resting on her knees.

  “You must. We need someone with your experience. Calypso should have stepped down as soon as you were cleared of any wrongdoing.” Millie might as well have been surgically implanted on Violet’s backside these days because wherever one went, so went the other.

  “This is the worst thing that could possibly happen. A second unexplained death is going to draw more media attention, and you know very well we can’t afford another round of bad publicity.” Eyes glittering with a host of emotions I couldn’t fathom, Violet shook her head slowly and deliberately.

  Maybe my radar was off, but it seemed like she was enjoying the idea of scandal and media coverage more than she should. “You really should have considered the good of the coven, Clara. This situation puts us all at risk.”

  Did she just subtly suggest my grandmother had something to do with Calypso going missing? Heat followed the rise in my blood pressure and painted my neck and face with damp pink. I’d better be wrong, or Violet was going to get a taste of Balefire wrath from a source she never expected.

  “Are you saying...” I started and subsided when Clara raised an eyebrow slightly and shook her head at me. Behind her, the Balefire’s flames evened out and began to burn a red so deep it looked almost black.

  Witch feeds the flame, and the flame feeds the witch. Too bloody right. I siphoned off my rage and fed it into the primal fire before the emotion turned into something wicked and uncontrollable. At least a minute had passed before I tuned back in to the conversation.

  “There’ll be burnings before this is over, you mark my words.” Millie was so keyed up she reminded me of Don Knotts in The Ghost and Mr. Chicken, one of my all-time favorite movies. “Burnings.” Her voice dropped to a scandalized whisper. Her bugged-out eyes only enhanced the resemblance.

  Satisfied no one in the immediate family had been hurt or worse, Kin had taken himself off to the kitchen where he could hear everything without seeming to eavesdrop. Given a choice, I would have joined him. During the ten years between when I should have come into my powers and when I actually did, I’d been left out of coven politics so completely I still felt like an outsider.

  “You know there were never any...”

  Violet cut me off. “The less the outside world knows about us, the better.” Her eyes cut toward the doorway Kin had walked through moments earlier. “We don’t tell our secrets to every Tom, Dick, and Harry who winks in our direction.”

  “Channel. Five. News.” I forced the words out between clenched teeth. Wild unicorns couldn’t pull me from the room now. “I wasn’t the one caught on video.” Probably because I didn’t know how to fly a broomstick, but that’s a conversation for another day.

  Clara gave a delicate snort while a flush crept toward Violet’s hairline.

  “Well, I never,” Violet puffed up at the offense.

  “Indeed, you did.” A flower might have wilted under Clara’s gaze, but Violet only raised her chin another notch and let the accusation fall into a heavy silence broken seconds later by Millie letting out a noise that sounded like someone stepped on a mouse.

  “I can’t stand all this fighting,” she wailed. I thought we’d been quite civil, all things considered. Five seconds of a faerie tiff would send Millie cowering under one of the beds curled into the fetal position. Probably not the worst place to be during one of their battles, but not the kind of witch you’d hold up as a shining example of the breed. “We need to do something. A memory spell, perhaps.”

  “Yes, that’s a wonderful idea! Make the entire city forget all about the strange goings on lately.” Of course Violet agreed with her lackey.

  Aghast, Clara opened her mouth to speak, but before she got a word out the doorbell rang again. A second group of somber witches filed into the house amid the sounds of rattling pans coming from the kitchen.

  Leaving my grandmother to handle the witch invasion, I dodged into the kitchen and caught Evian’s eye. “Party?” I waved a hand to indicate the food appearing on table and counters.

  “Nope.” A nod indicated the growing group.

  “Thanks.” I let my smile include all four of the busy faeries and, pretending their motives were entirely altruistic and they weren't just being nosey, returned to Clara’s side.

  No amount of finger food was going to make this a merry meet.

  Aunt Mag managed to sneak out while the room filled with the buzz of concerned voices. Crowds weren’t her thing, and she refused to indulge in coven politics after the last blowout. It was tempting to follow her upstairs since I’d have bet my favorite sweater her crystal ball was already getting a workout. Talking a situation to death wasn’t Margaret Balefire’s style.

  Apparently Millie and Violet were the only coven members concerned about the involvement of four faeries, considering the speed at which they snarfed the crab puffs and mini quiches circling the room. I could see the lines of Gran’s face twitch in an attempt to suppress an eye roll, but she stood in front of the group with authority and chose to be the bigger witch.

  “First of all, we haven’t received definitive proof that Calypso is dead, so let’s not assume we’ve lost our priestess,” she even managed to keep all traces of contempt from coloring the word, “just yet. We need more information. Who here is close friends with Calypso?”

  I followed Gran’s gaze around the silent room and saw nothing but sideways glances and guilty expressions.

  “Clara, who are you kidding? Calypso doesn’t have friends. She has loyal subjects, and it certainly isn’t because of her benevolent nature,” Lobelia chided.

  Gran sighed and tried another tack, “All right, then has anyone tried scrying for her? I would assume Serena has, but since she’s not here maybe we should give it a go. Pyewacket, gather the supplies, and bring the clearest quartz pendulum you can find.”

  Her voice kept a low tone even though Pye was two rooms away.

  “Winnie, you’re the strongest at scrying, so you’ll do the honors. We just need something of Calypso’s as a focus.” Winsome Warner had hidden talents. Who knew?

  Violet’s face lit up as she plunged an arm elbow-deep into her duffel bag sized purse, “I’ve got something. In here. Somewhere.” She grunted and fished; finally producing the thin gold pen I’d seen poised over Calypso’s clipboard the night Gran called the meeting to announce her triumphant return.

  “I wanted her blueberry scone recipe—say what you want, but Calypso’s scones are always so perfectly moist—and then I must have t
ucked the pen away in my purse by accident.” Violet babbled as she handed it to Gran.

  “Well, it’s a good thing you did. Pye, everything set?” The familiar nodded silently and ducked back into the kitchen, presumably, to report back to the rest of the eavesdroppers.

  Winnie knelt down before the makeshift altar in the middle of the parlor, the pen clutched in one hand and the crystal pendulum in the other. She blew lightly on a white candle, and the wick gently flamed to life. We all waited with bated breath while she held the pendulum’s chain above a Port Harbor city map and willed the crystal to touch down on a location.

  “Nothing. We’ll have to widen the search.” Gran replaced the thin sheet of paper with a state map, and finally one of the entire northern hemisphere. Still, the quartz pendulum refused to indicate a location, only hesitating over our tiny town in Maine, then a blank expanse of country outside St. Louis, and finally the mountains of Oregon.

  Each time the pendulum wavered, the Balefire shot pink and blue sparks up the chimney until finally Winnie threw her hands in the air and admitted defeat. “Either she is dead, or she’s skipping all over the place, or she’s performed an advanced cloaking spell. I’d be surprised if she had it in her, to be honest with you.”

  Didn't surprise me one bit. I’d seen Serena dodge my pendulum, and she had to have learned the skill from someone.

  “We’re at a dead end, excuse the expression, and we’ve got a funeral to attend. Everyone keep your eyes and ears open. Watch your back. Don’t go out alone. Regardless of what’s happened to Calypso Snodgrass, there’s a witch killer on the loose, and we all need to look out for one another and ourselves. Let’s all give our support to Letitia, and we’ll reconvene once we’ve said our goodbyes to Tansy. Agreed?” Gran looked around the room.

  As if anyone had a choice.

  Chapter Seventeen

  CLARA

  “I can’t believe you made me wear this thing.” Lexi shrugged the heavy blue velvet back into place to keep the clasp from digging into her neck. “It weighs a hundred pounds and smells like old lady.” She slammed the van door with extra force. It really was time to think about buying a car that wasn’t covered with garish advertising images.

  “Watch who you’re calling old, that’s my second best robe, and I can’t believe you don’t own a single ceremonial garment of your own. What is wrong with those faeries?”

  “Leave them alone, they did the best they could. It wasn’t like the coven offered up any witchy parenting advice.”

  If she was going to become a proper coven member, I thought Lexi needed to start learning the ways of her people. And I needed to take her shopping for her own things. My old robe started shedding fine blue hairs over every inch of the simple black dress she wore underneath.

  “Wearing black to a funeral.” I tsked. “Who ever heard of such a thing?”

  “Everybody has.” Lexi cast a disbelieving look over my choice of a tunic dress in a lovely eggplant color over a pair of burnt orange stockings. At least they didn’t have stripes on them. I’m not a total cliché.

  “Shut up.” Mag’s tolerance for bickering—unless she was one of the bickerers—was smaller than the head of a pin. “Have some respect for the dead and them that were left behind.” When she’s upset, Mag’s grammar goes out the window.

  Poor Tansy.

  “Sorry.” Lexi and I spoke together and followed my sister down a grassy embankment.

  “I told you those shoes were a bad choice,” I whispered to Lexi, knowing Mag’s sharp hearing would still pick up every word. “We’re taking that trail through the trees.” I pointed to a grove of pines up ahead.

  Lexi’s nose raised a fraction of an inch but, with admirable stubbornness, she refused to respond. She's nothing like her mother, I thought for perhaps the hundredth time. Or if I was counting the stoned years, the thousandth. Sylvana would have to forgive me for wishing she was more like her daughter, though I wasn't sure I'd ever forgive myself. Not for the comparison, and surely not for the act that made me miss out on my granddaughter's formative years.

  But I still suppressed a grin when her three-inch heels sunk into the pine needle-covered earth. Moist, early autumn air had turned their soft golden hue to a deep, russet brown that contrasted with lush green mosses and ferns lining the path.

  We’d driven several miles north to a rocky, uninhabited stretch of coastline. No highway noise or mindless chatter pierced the serene quiet of these woods. Only the soft crashing of waves against the nearby shore sounded between the chirping of birds and the rustle of a few curious chipmunks. It was the perfect place to say goodbye to Tansy.

  The entire coven had assembled save for Calypso, who, as high priestess, should have led the Summerland ritual according to ancient custom. I hoped Letitia could get through the ceremony without breaking down. We witches understand that death is an inevitable part of living, and we also believe our souls will return to this plane of existence in the form of another life. But that doesn’t mean we don’t feel the loss of a loved one just as painfully as anyone else.

  Losing a daughter was something I could relate to. During all but the last few months spent in my stone prison, I’d mourned doubly knowing not only was my Sylvana dead but that I was to blame. I’d thought I deserved my punishment and believed my incarceration no different from that of other murdering witch. I wished I could alleviate some of Letitia’s pain, but there is no act of kindness with that amount of power.

  The woods opened into a clearing, and beyond that, visible through the border of trees, lay an undisturbed expanse of sandy beach. Two large, square stones formed the base for a wooden funeral pyre, on which lay Tansy’s linen-shrouded form. I heard Lexi’s sigh of relief when we approached the altar, and it became clear she wouldn’t have to come face-to-face with Tansy again.

  Each witch had added something to the border of blooming flowers surrounding the altar: items of sentiment; strange powders and potions designed to ease her soul’s passage into the Summerlands; and protective charms.

  When we had all assembled into a circle, Letitia raised her hands, head, and heart skyward to begin the ritual.

  From the Goddess, we have hailed

  And to her breast, we shall return

  Once you walked upon the earth, grounded in her stability

  Once you breathed the air and reveled in her freedom

  Once you played with the fire and lost yourself in her passion

  Once you bathed in the water and got lost in her dreams

  Now you dance with the spirit

  You have become that which encompasses us all

  You have passed into the lands of Summer

  We will meet again someday, sister witch

  Blessed be

  Letitia, tears running down her face, choked on the last few words, then raised a golden, wine-filled goblet and took a sip before passing it to the next in line. Every member of the coven followed suit, each swallow punctuated with an echoing “blessed be.”

  LEXI

  I don’t think these witches realize how creepy it is to actually burn a body nowadays. Yes, I get it: ancient ritual passed down for thousands of years. Blah, blah, blah. This is 21st century America and, might I add, it’s probably against the law.

  I reluctantly participated in erecting a barrier to keep us from attracting the attention of prying eyes, noses, and ears—and by that, I can only assume, they meant those of the police or any rational human who might summon said police.

  Then, we each took our place at the edge of Tansy’s pyre, carried it to the shore, and prepared to push her out to sea.

  I barely heard a word of Letitia’s parting remarks, because this was the part of the day I’d been dreading. Don't get me wrong, I was sorry for Tansy's death and the somber nature of the occasion had not escaped me. But no one had told me my part of the ceremony until we were standing next to the covered body.

  “Here, Lexi.” Aunt Mag produced a candle from beneath her
robes, its wick flickering behind the bubble of a charm designed to make transporting the flame less of a fire hazard. “Are you ready?”

  As I’ll ever be. I so didn't want to be the one to do what needed to be done next.

  “Blessed be,” My voice sounded full and confident, even though my fingers were shaking as I touched the tip of Mag’s Balefire candle to the edge of Tansy’s shroud.

  The flame traveled slowly as the pyre drifted out on the receding tide, finally engulfing it and Tansy’s body as the last rim of the sun disappeared over the horizon.

  CLARA

  With that, the more formal part of the ritual was over. Wine flowed, and cakes were passed around as a symbol of flesh and blood. Sounds creepy, but what do you want from me? We are witches, after all.

  Stories of Tansy drew a picture of a young woman with great promise. I learned she loved to dance, and she’d been a scholar, particularly adept at translating ancient languages. With wine loosening tongues, I decided this was the right place and time for a bit of judicious prying into poor Tansy’s life for clues to how she might have ended up dead. I’d taken the white, powdery image of a witch’s hat as a portent. What could a demon and a Raythe have against her? And where, if at all, did a witch fit into the equation?

  Only Tansy knew, and she was beyond the ability to tell.

  The next best thing would be to find out more about her, so I listened intently to every story in case there might be a clue.

  “Tansy was the sweetest person. When I came down with witchpox last year, she brought me an anti-itch potion that worked like a charm, and she didn’t even care that I was contagious.”

  “She was the best at finding things. I lost my second-best wand in Tidewater Park,” one young witch revealed. “And I panicked, but Tansy found it. In the pocket of the boy I wasn’t supposed to be dating.” She blushed prettily.

  As each tale unfolded, I regretted not having the chance to get to know the young witch. Genuinely caring, willing to help anyone in need, it was a pity her life had ended so soon.