Sophia knew why they were short-handed. Alex had been a no-show and would probably be out of a job when Mr. Sinclair found her and brought her safely home—and he would.
He had asked Sophia for a favor, and that favor meant putting on her Strega hat to perform nothing short of a miracle. Never mind that he was asking her to swallow all that bitterness and reavow a life she no longer wanted any part of. He didn’t know the extent of her deep-seated fear of what opening that box might bring, and had she refused, he would have accepted that refusal without reproach.
But here she was, standing tall and proud before her gods, not quite understanding how she could have been so quick to blame them for what happened to her Rue that spring day nineteen years earlier. She was back, and she would deal with all her baggage another time because there were more important things on her plate today.
“Are you the manager?” she asked.
“I am.”
She prepared herself for the lie–something she didn’t do well. “My name is Sophia. Alex Kelley is my niece.”
Apollo made the connection with Alex’s previous lie about a funeral for an uncle. “Oh, I’m so sorry for your loss. Alex told us about her uncle.”
Sophia stared at him with a frozen expression, the rhythm of the lie interrupted and now slowed to a halt. “Her uncle?”
“Sophia. Nice to see you again.” Katie came out from the romance section and interrupted the conversation that was about to get sticky.
“Yes, we were all very sad to hear about the funeral.” Her eyes pinned Sophia’s as she salvaged the lie. “Is everything okay? Alex hasn’t shown up for work, and I can’t seem to reach her on her cell.”
Sophia took Katie’s cue and pulled herself together. If this was to work, she needed complete focus. After all, she’d been alienated from her craft for nineteen years and was rather rusty on the fine points of illusion. A spell like the one she had planned required her undivided attention, which meant she needed Katie to distract Apollo while she worked her magic.
“Thank you,” she said to both. “He was old.” She looked at Katie and motioned toward the science fiction section with a slight flick of her head. “Can I speak to you in private?”
Apollo politely stepped back and allowed the bereaved widow her moment of privacy with Katie. Sophia wasted no time taking Katie by the arm and steering her down an aisle.
“What the hell was that?” Katie asked as she yanked her arm free. “Mind telling me why you’re pretending to be Alex’s aunt? And then you can tell me where she is.”
Sophia wasn’t happy about any of this. She’d spent the past two decades living by the dogma of the Catholic church in hopes of forgetting her past. And even though she knew it was all a convenient guise for denial, the part about not lying was a pretty universal tenet.
“She’s in trouble,” Sophia hissed. “Mr. Sinclair is taking care of things, but I need you to help me fix this job situation for her.”
“It’s too late. Apollo’s already looking for a replacement.”
“How many days has she missed?” Sophia didn’t know Alex’s schedule from one day to the next, usually finding out at the breakfast table each morning if she’d be home for dinner.
“Monday was her day off, but she hasn’t shown up since then.” An exaggerated shudder rippled through Katie’s torso. “God, why is she doing this to me? I don’t think Apollo is going to fall for another dead relative.”
Sophia had no idea what Katie was talking about, and it showed through the blank stare she threw back at her.
“She missed a couple days last week when her uncle died. Hence the condolences to you—her aunt.”
“Ah…I see.” Sophia dismissively waved her hand. “I got a better plan.”
Sophia had ears. She’d heard every detail when Alex told Greer about Katie’s unique heritage. Having never worked with dragons, she had no idea if the spell would work on one, so she thought it best to bring Katie in on the plan.
“Do you like Mondays?” she asked Katie.
“Um…not my favorite day, but I have nothing against them.”
“Good, because it’s going to be Monday for a while.”
Katie stood back and looked at the woman she knew as Greer’s housekeeper and cook. “That’s going to take a little explaining.”
“Not everywhere. Just here. In the shop.”
In general, time spells were tricky even for the most seasoned Strega. They could be just plain messy if you didn’t get all the variables lined up just so. Even after reversal, Sophia had seen one or two overlap and linger between the physical and the astral planes. None of her spells, of course, but she still needed to be focused and very careful about what she was about to do.
“You walk in the shop, it’s Monday,” Sophia said with a that’s that air of confidence. “As soon as you leave, no more Monday. Very simple plan.”
Katie leaned back against the opposite shelf and grinned. “Well…What. Are. You?” she asked rhetorically, amused by the revelation that even the hired help wasn’t immune to the weird and freakish bubble she was living in.
“Strega,” Sophia announced proudly.
The word rolled off her tongue with a taste of pure truth, and in an odd sort of way, it released her from all the guilt she’d been storing up over the years.
Katie gasped and her grin spread wider. “Really? That’s fucking awesome!”
Sophia’s pride continued to swell as she lifted her arms toward the ceiling and began the incantation in Italian. She lowered her right arm back down and pulled something from her purse—a clear orb with a glowing green spot in the center. She hurled it at the north end of the shop. It stuck to the wall and spread like wildfire across the flat surface, consuming the posters and the hanging pictures as it made its way to each corner. She sent another orb toward the west wall, this one glowing blue in the center. The paintball working was completed with a red orb cast to the south and a yellow one to the east. The orbs met at the corners and spread across the ceiling and floor in unison, sealing off the room with an invisible shield.
Katie looked up, and the air in the center of the room was filled with letters and words that seemed to be floating from the pages of the thousands of books filling the shelves.
She shot a look across the room to where Apollo was sitting at the front counter, oblivious to it all. She took a few steps closer and realized he was frozen in place. Time had momentarily stopped.
“You are badass,” Katie declared as she watched her boss hang in suspended animation.
When it was over and the walls and the air had cleared, Apollo looked up and noticed Katie staring at him. “What?” he asked.
She shook her head. “I was just trying to remember what day it was.”
“It’s the dreaded Monday,” he grumbled as he buried his head back in his paperwork.
Sophia pursed her lips and walked toward the entrance. “I’ll keep you posted,” she threw over her shoulder as she walked out the door.
Except for the incredible smell of rising yeast and freshly baked bread, there was nothing remarkable about the place—until you pushed through the crowd and got a look at the amazing spread of pastries.
The floor was covered with worn linoleum marred by years of heavy traffic, and a vintage display case that came up to an average man’s shoulders seemed to anchor the store to the corner lot on Mulberry Street. Adelina’s had served New Yorkers for decades, and by the looks of the mob standing in line to order, it would continue to serve the city for many more.
Rhom surveyed the room with his trademark Rottweiler face. Satisfied by the innocuous nature of the crowd, he gave his approval with a firm nod.
The bakery had only been open for fifteen minutes, just in time for the brunch or early lunch rush. As you’d expect in a place where people waited at least a half hour just for the pleasure of serving themselves, there were no empty tables and plenty of standers waiting to pounce on the first vacancy.
; “I don’t like being an asshole,” Rhom said, “but duty calls.” He approached a table occupied by a man and two women. Not a word was said as he gave them a look that motivated them to leave.
One of the women slid out from the bench and Rhom slid in, drawing a few muttered comments from the lurkers who were there first but didn’t dare broach the point. Thomas slid next to him while Greer and Loden took the other side.
“So, what do we do now?” asked Thomas.
Greer looked around the room, focusing on the guy with a flour-stained apron and greasy black hair hustling behind the huge counter. “I have no idea, but that cat didn’t upchuck the name of this place for nothing.”
Thomas bobbed his head and glanced around the table. “Yeah, there’s something not right about that cat.”
“You think?” Greer replied.
Thomas ignored the sarcasm. “Where’d she get that thing?”
“I have a feeling that cat found her,” Loden speculated. “Seems to be on her side, though.” He shrugged and slid back out into the aisle.
A woman with a high ponytail and running pants inched closer as he stood up. “Not leaving, love. But I’ll make sure you get the table when we do.”
“Where are you going?” Greer asked as Loden started walking toward the entrance.
“Well, I’m not going to jump the line.” He nodded toward the back of the long mob of people.
“For what?”
“Cannoli. You don’t come to Adelina’s without getting cannoli.”
“Bring me one,” Thomas said. “And a double espresso.”
“What the fuck do I look like? A waitress?” Loden smirked. “Don’t worry. I’ll buy a dozen.”
He took his place at the back of the line, slogging along the front of the long display case, the slow progress making him want to buy one of everything. He wondered if that was the point. Clever marketing strategy; inflate the line with hooked regulars so those impulse purchases could fatten their asses and Adelina’s profits.
Something dropped, and the sound of breaking china cut through the white noise of the voices and the ringing cash register and the crumpling bags being stuffed with pastries.
Loden glanced through the opened back panel of the display case, past the deeply scored Pane di Altamura loaves. He spotted a man with a tray in his hand bending down to pick up shards of broken china. He absently examined the contents of the tray: a glass of orange juice, a cup of coffee, a pastry stuffed inside one of Adelina’s signature parchment bags. He couldn’t see what was on the plate, but the small pitcher that had shattered on the floor left a pool of sticky amber liquid all over the linoleum and splattered across the lower edge of the man’s white apron.
A woman was taking orders a few people deep from the register. Loden shuffled with the line past the tall display case and reached the counter. He gave the woman his order for eight cannoli, a dozen biscotti, and four espressos.
The man with the tray finished cleaning the mess on the floor and stood back up, revealing the contents of the plate.
Something triggered in Loden’s head at the sight of a plate of French toast in an Italian bakery full of Italian breakfast delicacies.
Greer looked up from the table just as Loden turned to look at him. The two men held their stare for a moment, and then Loden nodded his head and turned his eyes back to the man walking past the counter with the tray of food.
THIRTY
Maelcolm pulled his phone from his pocket and placed the order. “Your food will be here shortly. I’ll give you some time to eat and take a shower before we resume our conversation.”
He placed the phone back in his pocket and headed for the door. As he reached for the knob, he looked back at me. “You will be a queen, Alex. The mother and the blood of a new race.”
It took a moment for it to hit me, but the words settled in and I realized why I was here. Daemon had said something similar the night be grabbed me outside of Greer’s house. You, Alex, will make us kings.
The prophecy was the prize, but I was the one who would create a race strong enough to keep it. It was in my blood. They needed my blood—a breeder.
The weight of the epiphany hung like a giant stone in my chest, dragging me toward the ground as my vision began to blur and I lost sense of my limbs.
As I began to slip toward the ground, Maelcolm’s face appeared within a few inches of mine and then dissolved like particles of dust thrown into the wind.
My shins were cold. I looked down at the soft grass under my skin and followed the familiar shadow presiding over the altar, casting over the shiny black fabric partially concealing my legs. A breeze floated through the air, and the familiar smell of ancient rites anchored in my memory like roots of a tree. Then a ring of candles flared around the edge of the circle as the dark space lit up in a soft glow of blue light.
A hand rested on my shoulder, and my eyes closed as a euphoric smile spread across my face from the familiar feel of my mother’s touch. But when I turned my head to look at the fingers resting against my robe, I saw the thin fragile hand of someone else. The veins of the hand telegraphed through translucent skin, and the joints of the fingers knotted and twisted from a lifetime of hard use.
I turned to see who was standing behind me. The old woman wore a robe like mine––silky and black, a long kimono held closed by a cord. Her snow-white hair reached down to her waist, and her eyes were the color of green quartz, nested in the center of folded skin as thin and fragile as tissue.
My robe hung open at the front. She glanced down at my exposed skin and walked past me to the altar. She reached for the same wooden box my mother had pulled the prism from, and removed something that bundled into a fat ball in her fist. Her arms circled me and cinched the braided cord of purple and silver around my waist.
“That’s better,” she declared with a light brogue, stepping back to examine me. “Now you look like a Kelley. A proper witch.”
The voice was older and the eyes not as bright, but there was no mistaking the face that bore a remarkable resemblance to my mother’s—and mine. I’d just been introduced to the grand matriarch of the Fitheach clan.
Isla Kelley stood before me in the flesh. But Isla Kelley was dead, so the woman standing in front of me was just as much of an impossibility as my mother showing up in a diner outside of Ithaca.
She came closer and finally let a smile peek through her smart and cautious façade. She pulled her white hair away from her face, revealing her left ear and the mark the gods had given her. “Let me see,” she said.
I turned sideways and pulled my own hair into a lump of red waves on top of my head. “It’s here.” I pointed to the spot beneath my hair where the mark was.
She reached out to touch it.
“You can’t feel it.” My mark was different. My mother’s was raised like a brand on top of her skin, and since Isla’s was the result of a burn from lightning, I assumed hers was raised, too. “It’s smooth and flat. It’s part of me.”
Isla ran her fingers over the spot. She didn’t need to feel it. She could see it with her mind as clear as if it were painted in the air in front of her.
“The trinity is complete,” she intoned.
Her face went solemn as she stepped back and looked over my shoulder. I looked in the direction of her stare as Maeve walked through the wall of candles illuminating the circle. She looked at Isla and then back at me, and then she fell to her knees and sank into the earth like a heap of black sails fluttering to the ground. Her fingers danced across the tips of the grass blades, combing each one as if she were flipping through a drawer of tiny index cards until she found the right one.
She plucked the blade and held it up to the moon. I focused on it and waited for some magical transformation to take place, but it was the ground beneath my bare feet that was the magic.
Isla’s eyes lowered and her grin widened as she watched my reaction to the circle of grass rolling like a sea of turbulent waves. It seemed to reac
h upward around my mother’s kneeling body, toward its missing part.
“Every blade is connected to a million others,” Maeve said. “What happens to you, happens to all of us. You’re being torn from your roots.”
“I get it. It’s a metaphor. But—”
Maeve stood up before I could finish the rest of my naive statement. She grabbed my hand and pulled me to the altar. She reached for a small knife lying on a wooden tray and held it over my hand, but as the blade came closer to my skin, she stopped and closed her eyes.
I made no attempt to pull my hand away, not quite believing my own mother would plunge a knife into my skin—or why.
Isla looked at Maeve with a pointed expression and then grabbed the knife from her hand. “Let’s see what’s inside.” She brought the knife down firmly on the center of my palm, cutting swiftly through my flesh. It took a second for the pain to register and for the sharp gasp to leave my lungs. Isla’s eyes went wide as the blood flowed from the wound and pooled into a thick black puddle in my upturned hand.
My mother dipped her finger into the blood and ran it across her lower lip, tasting it with the tip of her tongue as if it were a thin line of salt that required a mere granule to detect.
“I’ve feared this moment since the day you were born,” she whispered as her eyes lifted to mine.
Ava poured herself a cup of steaming hot tea. A storm was coming and she could already feel the havoc of it in her bones. Not the kind of storm that brought lightning and torrential rain, but the kind that would wreck lives and leave a path of destruction that could upset the course of destiny.
She’d been getting messages from beyond the grave for days. They were ambiguous thoughts that weren’t quite clear, but she knew they were coming from Maeve.
She took her cup and went back out to the front of the shop. It was Wednesday, which was book club day. For the past four years, the ladies of the Westside Book Collective had congregated at Den of Oddities and Antiquities for their weekly book review.
The Blood Thief (The Fitheach Trilogy Book 2) Page 28