by M. L. Briers
Oh, how I repaid her for that one – it was the winter when she looked as if she had a blue tinge to her skin – like a Smurf – and she couldn’t cover it with make-up.
“You look like that. Did you annoy Eileen again?” Moira asked as I snapped up a pan and flipped it over to check out my reflection. My cheeks were certainly flushed, but that had nothing to do with being hexed.
“No!” I snapped back, returning the pot to its place and blowing upwards in a stupid attempt to cool myself down.
“Or is this just a happy by-product of you talking to Detective Doofus again?”
Moira started plating up Ross’ breakfast like a juggler, and I remembered why I’d dashed into the kitchen before she’d distracted me with a walk down memory lane, and a load of nonsense.
“When you take him his breakfast…”
“Why do I have to have that displeasure?”
She looked as if I’d slapped her with a fresh kipper, and was that thought tempting? You bet it was.
“Because some miserable old busybody has gone and spilled the beans…”
She rushed in with her mouth again, and I wondered if we had a fresh kipper in the fridge. “I have nae made beans, this is the first breakfast of the day, and wouldn’t you know it would be for Mr. Mac-Dribbles. I’m not sure where that Ross puts all the food he eats, but he certainly fills his boots…”
“And you have so much hot air you could play the bagpipes for a week straight without stopping!” I shot back, and she pulled her head back on her neck and gave me that look – the one that said she was calculating just how much Belladonna she could slip into my toddy without killing me.
“Sounds like somebody put their knickers on back to front this morning and they’re chaffing.”
There were more times than not, when I wanted to use my magic for evil, and most of those times involved Moira. This was one of those times, but I might just see if I could find a nice thistle on the way home, and then we’ll see how she liked chaffing knickers.
“I will say this only once…” I bit down on my need to do her harm, because, as we all know, the first rule of being a witch is; if it harms none.
Obviously, whoever made that a law had not met my sister.
“Then you’ll self-destruct?”
“I wouldn’t give you the satisfaction…”
“Pity.”
“Can I continue?”
“If you must.”
She cocked her left eyebrow at me and raised her chin. Magic be damned, if I shaved that stupid eyebrow off in her sleep then I wouldn’t technically be breaking any rules, now would I?
“The gossip mill told Jack that we deal in magic…”
“Whoever spoke out of turn; I curse them to…” I moved quickly to slap a silencing spell on her lips, and she grunted in annoyance.
“No you don’t, Miss Apocalypse-whenever, you know it’ll come back thrice-fold to bite you in the bum,” I warned her, and her eyes were more expressive than her words could ever be. Right then she was telling me of all the ways that she was thinking about killing me.
I reluctantly released her from my spellwork, and she bit out a string of words that would get her in trouble with Gran before she slammed the pot she was holding down on the counter and rounded on me.
“So, why do I need to go out there? You want me to try to erase his memory?”
I groaned inwardly and sighed outwardly. “No,” I shook my head in case her thick head couldn’t get the message from words alone.
“You want me to hex him because you don’t have the heart to do it yourself?”
I snapped a look at her, and she was smirking. Then she wiggled her eyebrows at me, and I was determined to shave them both off at my earliest convenience.
“Why would I not have the heart?” I demanded, folding my arms, and offering her my best – I’m about done with your messing – stance.
“Oh, I don’t know. Maybe because you’re sweet on hi…” I silenced her again with a nod of my head and a grunt of annoyance.
She rounded on me and narrowed her eyes as if she meant business, but I knew my sister – she preferred to blindside me than come head-on.
Still, she did look as if she’d sucked on a rather potently sour lemon. Bonus points to me.
“He was told; I’m a matchmaker,” I hissed, and she snapped on a frown.
She opened her mouth, and her lips were moving, but the sweet sound of silence was a blissful thing.
Moira stopped flapping her lips, stomped her foot on the floor, and huffed without sound. I took an extra moment to savor not having to hear her voice, and then I begrudgingly released her from my spell.
“Stop doing that!” she hissed, and her eyes shot daggers.
“Stop yapping like a pup at the mail van then.”
“You only just started matchmaking, so whoever was yapping, does nae know us as well as some,” she offered back, and I considered it.
“I did think along those lines, but the point remains – Jack thinks I’m a witch.” I tossed up my hands at the audacity of the man for accusing me like that.
“Err, newsflash,” she offered me those raised eyebrows again, and I mentally added lady razors to my shopping list.
“Err, editorial, we all know I’m a witch, but we don’t all flaunt it. Especially, and most importantly, to outlanders,” I snapped back, and by snapped; I mean that I actually felt my last nerve snapping.
“Point taken.”
“Finally, and can you please take Ross his breakfast before it’s frostier than the blood in Gran’s veins, and be nice.”
“Nice?” She snorted with contempt.
“Yes.”
“To Mac-Dribbles?” She snorted like a pig in search of truffles.
“He was helpful.”
“Fine,” she bit out, festering with annoyance. “Just this blooming once.” She picked up his plate and started for the kitchen door.
“Give him an extra cookie treat,” I called after her.
“Scooby snack,” she ground out, and I had to laugh.
Poor Ross.
~
“Maggie!”
I’d know those deep tones anywhere, and even though the sound of them made my heart pound, my blood heat up, and my shoulders try to mimic ear muffs.
I felt the dread born out of knowing that I needed to stay away from Jack for the foreseeable future until he forgot all about the silliness of me being a witch.
I dropped my chin towards my chest and imagined myself as small as possible as I raced along the pavement towards the bank. Of course, like a child that tossed their hands over their eyes in the hopes that you could no longer see them, without a little magic to back it up – I still stuck out like a sore thumb, but a hunched one – like an old crone.
“Maggie McFae!” he called again, and I rolled my eyes at the sheer stupidity of the man.
Really, how many Maggie’s had answered his first call for him to feel the need to add my surname to his next shout? And he was the best and the brightest in the police force? Geez.
I tossed a look back over my shoulder, and he was rushing across the road towards me. I couldn’t quite feel mean-spirited enough to hope that he got knocked over by a fast moving flock of sheep, but the thought was tempting enough to make me smile at the mental image.
The point was, he wasn’t giving up, even when I’d ignored him. So, I pulled up and sighed inwardly as I waited for him to catch me up.
“I have business at the bank, so this had better not be more of your nonsense about witches,” I said, getting in the first shot across his bow like a pirate ship offering a warning.
“Do I think you’re a witch, woman? Probably not, although, most people, even the rational and sane ones, tend to dabble in that nonsense nowadays,” he informed me.
I saw red on so many levels that I could have pushed him under a fast moving flock of spirited sheep myself, and without any guilt whatsoever.
“Woman?”
> Moira’s eyebrow trick was catching, like when an elderly relative did that little, constant nod, and after about half an hour, everyone was sitting there doing it. Gran was starting to do that, and we loved her for it. She said it gave her more character. Well, my eyebrows reached up for my hairline.
Jack grinned, not just any grin, but it lit his eyes with laughter and made my knees go a little wobbly, while stupid butterflies danced in my stomach. I made a mental note to check if my sister had put some equally stupid spell on me when I got home.
A little aura cleanse never hurt anybody. Not when you had my family that was for sure.
“Did you not hear me calling you?”
That’s right, Jack, deflect – well, I am the master of deflection, and I see your hand and call you on it – you devious man.
“Perhaps I was done with your particular brand of stupid for today,” I informed him and watched that laughter start to fade in his eyes – call witches irrational and insane, would you? “After all, the island has its own village idiots; we don’t need to import them from the mainland.”
“Alright, snappy-mac-snap-pot, you don’t need to burn your feminist bra, I was only stating the obvious. Or are you nae a woman?” he offered back, thinking himself clever.
“You tell me – Defective – you’re the one that can’t seem to tear your eyes away from my boobs.”
Jack groaned. He did manage to keep his eyes on mine though, so brownie points for that.
“You’ve a sharp tongue on you, Maggie,” Jack berated me for pointing out his failings, and I felt a pang of guilt.
Maybe I was an irrational woman because I should have enjoyed wiping the floor with him.
“That’s the trouble with us witches.”
I was determined to dig my heels in. I placed my hands on my hips and offered him an evil glare.
“I’ll be taking my leave of you then, Maggie McFae,” he offered back in a snotty tone, and then he promptly turned on his heels and stormed away.
Ha!
That was my job, and he’d stolen my thunder. I felt as if I could aim a lightning bolt right up his…
“I’m done with ya,” I muttered, brushing my hands together like I was trying to get rid of flour from my fingertips.
I think I might have had a crush on detective Jack Mackie, but not anymore.
We were done – not that we’d ever started, but still…
CHAPTER TEN
~
“So, the Outlander knows about us, does he?” Gran’s evil, devious mind was working overtime. I could see the cogs turning from the other end of the dinner table.
My stupid sister, Moira, had let the cat out of the bag — not a real cat because that would be cruel, and witches were never cruel to cats. No, she’d announced to the family that Jack knew about witches.
Oh, stupid, stupid, lassy.
“Now, Gran…” I started to protest, trying my best to calm thing down, but, of course, it was Gran.
“I think a curse is in order,” Gran decided, and everyone else groaned.
My father even lifted his hand and shaded his eyes with it as he mumbled something unintelligible. I got the gist of it.
“We really don’t need to…” Mother started, but of course, Gran cut her off.
“Maybe the boat carrying him back to the mainland could sink?” Gran said to herself, tapping her fingertips against her chin as she stared at the opposite wall in contemplation.
“We have a road bridge connecting us to the mainland now, Gran,” Moira offered, amusement dancing in her eyes as she shot a look at me.
“I know we have a road bridge,” Gran snapped back at her, and it served her right. “Do I look senile to you?”
“That’s a loaded question,” Moira mumbled.
“Perhaps we could get the sheep to chew through his brake lines.” Gran tapped her fingertips against her chin a little faster, as she looked at the ceiling for answers.
I was sure that my heart was sinking lower, and lower, and lower toward my stomach. At least, it felt like that — if I stood up, I might give just give birth to it.
“I don’t think there is a need to curse the lad,” father spoke words of wisdom, but the death glare that Gran shot at him made him pull back in his chair, probably expecting her head to explode, and when nothing happened, he offered a small grunt and looked a little bit constipated.
“He’s not a lad — he’s a detective.” I could follow Gran’s reasoning before she’d even said it. “And what if he goes blabbing to the mainland that there are witches on the Isle of Skye?”
“I don’t know,” Dad offered back. “Perhaps they’ll lock him in an insane asylum.”
“Oh, that would be a good outcome,” Gran said with a look like she’d just struck gold.
I groaned inside my mind once more. Moira and her big mouth — she was always getting people in trouble. “Gran…” I tried again.
“No. I don’t trust the outlanders as far as I can throw them — that’s throw them without my magic.”
She’d known what I was going to say and she was sticking to her old ways like a castaway to the beach in hopes of rescue.
It was a simple way in anyone’s book. The Islanders were good – the outlanders were bad.
“It’s not like the witch hunts are still on,” Mother offered, and she wished she hadn’t said a word when Gran turned her steely gaze on her.
“They hunted the faeries — they wanted the faeries help — they wanted the faerie flag — what’s going to happen when they decide to hunt the witches? Because, unless you didn’t notice — we’re the witches!”
Oh dear, Gran was in ranting form tonight. That didn’t bode well for Jack. I would have to keep my eye on her in the spell department.
“Perhaps we can work on more matchmaking spells tonight?”
I needed to distract her and keep an eye on her. If we were working together, then it followed that I could do both.
“Sure, punish me, why don’t you?” Moira grumbled.
“Well, you are the big mouth at the table. Perhaps you’d like to just toss your other foot in?” I snapped back.
“See! That’s what happens when the outlanders find out about witches. We turn on ourselves,” Gran said, almost as if she was celebrating a victory and relishing her win.
“See what you did?” I snapped at Moira, and the witch was stupid enough to offer me a smirk back.
I had my lady razors, and I was going to use them as soon as she fell asleep.
~
Of course, I didn’t do it.
I was a witch, not Attila the Hun. Although, some might say that she’d well and truly deserved it if I had done it, but, her eyebrows live to get all judgy for another day.
I was more interested in what Jack wanted with someone who knew about magic. Now that I’d had time to climb down from my high horse and think about his motives, and not just the accusation and implications of what he’d said, I’d actually come to the conclusion that we – our family collectively – might just need to keep an eye on Jack and his investigation.
Especially, if he was trying to link it with magic.
That wouldn’t be good for any of us. Our ancestors had narrowly sidestepped the witch hunts and hysteria – very narrowly – and folk were still suspicious of anything to do with magic around these parts.
I mean, it wasn’t exactly ancient history around here, only a few hundred years had passed.
Most things that went wrong on the isle were blamed on the faeries; they were the island version of Gremlins, which was good for when Gran messed up a spell. Still, better to be safe than sorry; I’d need to keep a close eye on Jack.
That’s an eyeball for Gran and one for the detective – I sure hoped nobody else needed watching I’d just run out of eyeballs.
~
“Gran…” When I said her name and she jumped; I knew something was wrong. When I heard the clinking of bottles like she was trying to hide something, I was c
ertain that I’d caught her doing something mischievous. “What have you got there?”
“Me? Nothing,” Gran lied.
Before she could hide what she was doing, I strolled over to the counter, and I eyed the contents of the bottles. I knew exactly which bottles she’d had her hands on — she wasn’t as smart as she thought she was — she might have pushed the bottles back, but they had scattered the others around them.
“Dragon’s blood?” I looked down my nose at her as she turned innocent eyes on me.
“Yes, it’s very good for…” She looked constipated.
Ha! She was stumped. I’d caught her in the act, and now she was running to keep up.
“Mixing with that graveyard dirt?” I folded my arms and berated her with just a look.
“Graveyard dirt?” She tried for innocent again but came up woefully short.
“Gran.” I huffed as I unfolded my arms and snatched up the Dragon’s blood and the graveyard dirt.
On their own, not so bad — mixed together, and you could come up with the rather nice hex.
“I was just sorting through my inventory,” Gran lied again.
“Liar — liar, let’s go build a witch pyre,” I said, snorting my contempt for what she was about to do.
“Yes, well — why don’t we get started from where we left off last night?”
That was it. That was all I was going to get.
Heaven forbid that Gran should ever admit to doing anything nefarious. But I knew my Gran; she had been about to hex him.
“And what if it comes back to bite you in the backside?” I asked.
“I don’t know what you mean,” Gran said, shrugging her shoulders, and ending the conversation there.
“Yes, you do.”
“No, I don’t.”
“Yes, you do, Gran.”
“Margaret McFae!” Gran exclaimed, raising her voice to shrew-like qualities, and I knew I should have bent over and kissed my backside goodbye, but I was right about this one, and she wasn’t wiggling out of it.
“You always told me not to do anything that could come back to bite me. Well, this can come back to bite you,” I reminded her, as if she needed that reminder. She was the one that had hammered that into our brains when we first started spell working.