by Dani Harper
“It’s not fair to the other person,” she repeated into the phone. “You can’t build a lasting relationship on that; you have to respect their choices and their feelings.” She paced as she tried to direct her caller to a different solution. “It works better to be open to a love that’s right for you rather than having a specific person in mind. I strongly recommend a general spell of attraction, and leave the rest up to the Universe. I—”
The phone’s screen abruptly went blank. “Damn. Guess that’s not what he wanted to hear.”
George glanced up and shook his head. “Obstinado is what my mother would say.”
She sure would. How many times had Brooke heard his mom say that about George? “That always sounds so much more descriptive than just plain stubborn,” Brooke said, sliding into the booth across from her friend and resting her chin in one hand with a sigh. “And it’s true. No matter what I tell them, some people just want what they want.”
“Most of them aren’t even happy for long after they get it.”
“That’s true too, sadly.” You just can’t help everybody. Knowing that didn’t keep her from wanting to, though. Brooke put an elastic band around the phone to hold the cover on and tried to put it away with some measure of care into her pocket. Instead, it shot from her hands like a wet bar of soap and crashed onto the black-and-white tiled floor. “Oh, for crap’s sake!”
“I got it.” George was already in motion, scooping up the debris with one of his long-fingered hands. She could only shake her head in wonder as her cell phone was reassembled before her eyes—and in record time. The elastic had broken, but he conscripted another from his spiked leather pencil case and handed the finished product back to her.
“Thanks, G. What would I do without you?” Rather than take chances, she stood up and held open the right front pocket of her jeans and let him drop the phone in it.
He snorted. “Well, you’d have to buy a lot more phones. And you’d definitely never be able to set your own DVR.”
True enough. Heck, she’d be lucky to figure out how to use the TV remote. Brooke privately thought that despite her friend’s lack of interest in magic, his ease with technology was downright wizardlike. Of course, George would make an outstanding purveyor of spells, too—he was so graceful, so grounded, in all that he did, everything he touched. I’ll never be that coordinated, that at ease in my own skin. But then, her friend practiced daily to be just that coordinated, that agile and balanced. George wasn’t only an artist; he had also practiced for years to be a welterweight fighter in mixed martial arts, and he had made a local name for himself. He’d tried to teach her a few moves, and she showed a great deal of aptitude—but she was repelled by the idea of actually hurting somebody. She supposed it wasn’t all that surprising considering that the Gift was devoted to healing and helping, not to beating the daylights out of an opponent, even if that opponent was willing.
“So I guess I have a topic for tomorrow’s blog, huh? ‘Why You Shouldn’t Mess With Free Will’.”
Now in its fifth year, Handcastings: Magic for a Modern World boasted a following of well over a thousand regular subscribers, and the statistics showed there were even more casual readers visiting the site. Through her blog, Brooke was able to exchange tips and spells with other witches, be a source of ingredients and tools, and connect with potential clients. Overall, she emphasized the ethics of the craft and its overarching purpose to help and to heal.
“Free will? You could post that one every week. Too bad Mr. I-Want-What-I-Want won’t recognize the hint. Hey, were you still looking for a guest post for Monster Monday?” He stood the sketch pad on the counter to show her his work. “I was thinking about doing a write-up on hellhounds. Been drawing up some big toothy ones for the latest Devina of Hades series. See?”
For additional interest, Brooke had added two regular features to her blog: Supernatural Saturday and Monster Monday, where she could write about paranormal phenomena, plus myth and legend. Both had proved popular, helping her to attract a whole new audience. She slid into the booth beside George and studied the heavily muscled beasts snarling on the page. Being rendered in simple pencil didn’t detract from their fearsomeness in the least—especially since one of them had a human arm dangling from its jaws. Nice. She felt a chill that had nothing to do with the cooling currents of air from the vintage overhead fan. “So what are hellhounds supposed to do—are they watchdogs for the underworld or what?”
“Some are. There’re all kinds of myths about them. Vampires are said to employ hellhounds as daytime guardians. A hellhound can be a demon or even the devil in disguise. In Devina, her hellhounds are a special breed of dog that help her hunt down killer demons and other nasty creatures.” George had found success with the comic series he’d created six years ago, and was now making a comfortable living with its many spin-offs. Brooke was convinced, however, that he’d do it all for free—he loved drawing even more than his martial arts.
“And countries all over the world have old legends of big black dogs that haunt lonely roads,” he continued. “They hunt down the guilty, foretell deaths, show up just before terrible storms, or drag lost souls to hell.”
“Geez. Why does it have to be a dog? I know I’m more of a cat person, but I like dogs, and all the dogs I know are happy and friendly. I have trouble accepting that man’s best friend can be evil.”
George shrugged. “Hey, I’m just listing off some of the stories. Besides, a hellhound’s not evil; it’s just doing what it’s told, like any dog does, right? And the legends aren’t always bad. In some religions, it’s a dog that guides your spirit to heaven. In Colima, Mexico, where my uncle lives, people used to get buried with a little clay dog, so it could carry their souls to the right place.”
Brooke nodded at that one. Many in her craft believed dogs capable of perceiving both the mortal and the spiritual realm, and even of being able to cross from one to the other.
“Of course, then there’s El Guardia—my grandmamma called on him sometimes, and she said he always came to help her.”
“Sounds like Zorro. Who the heck is El Guardia?” With a cheesy superhero name like that, it just had to be something George made up to tease her.
“More like a what. It’s a spectral hound, a ghost dog or something. Sometimes Grandmamma would summon the dog to her circles.” George glanced around and lowered his voice as if revealing a secret. “Look, I’ve never told you this. One night, when I was about seven, I was supposed to be in bed sleeping, but I hid in the big cupboard in mi abuela’s spell room to watch her. I saw the dog, Brooke.”
She scrutinized her friend’s face, but he was on the level. “You’re not kidding. You actually saw it?”
He nodded, his rigid blue and black mohawk dipping with the movement. “I’m telling you, it was effin’ crazy, Brooke. The thing just appeared—walked right out of the damn fire. It was big and black and had wicked-looking teeth, but I remember the glowing eyes the most. Didn’t get to see anything else after that, though—I was so scared, I pissed my pajamas and fell out of the cupboard. The dog vanished and mi abuela was über-mad at me.”
“I’ll bet you were grounded for life.”
He rolled his eyes at that. “Please. Grandmamma was from a whole different generation. She’d never even heard of grounding. I got my butt whacked with a wooden cooking spoon.”
“Ouch. But what about the dog, G? Do you know anything else about it?”
“Years later—which is probably how long it took for Grandmamma to finally cool off—she told me that El Guardia protected the integrity of the circle and defended those who were in it. The creature also facilitated difficult castings. She’d call on the dog for help if a spell wouldn’t go right, or there was a troublesome situation, or a possibility of danger.”
“So he was like a sentinel or something? You never, ever told me that one,” chided Brooke.
“I know, I said that, remember? I just—well, you don’t tell just anyone you sa
w a ghost and peed your effin’ pants. You’re the only one who knows. I didn’t tell my mother, and neither did Grandmamma.”
“I’d probably wet my pants too, if I saw something like that. El Guardia sounds scary. But the things that he does? I’ve never heard of calling an animal spirit to fill that role before.”
“Not many people call on him because the hound is very strong, but mi abuela was—”
“Your grandmother was the most powerful bruja in Catemaco. I know, I know. Your mom talks about her all the time, and dammit, I wish I’d met her. Better yet, I wish you’d been more interested in magic and allowed her to train you. Then you could train me. There’s so much more I need to learn.”
“Cut yourself some slack. You’ve come a long way, to the point where you’re able to help a lot of people now. You learn fast and you have mega natural ability—your spells almost always work.”
She winced at that. “Almost is the operative word. You haven’t seen the hole in my back wall yet.”
“A hole? I didn’t see one last night when we were watching TV.”
“It’s only about four inches wide.” Through a solid brick wall. “It’s in the kitchen over the window by the sink and I—um—stuffed the hole with newspaper, sealed it with duct tape, and then hung the clock over it until I can get it fixed.” Brooke sighed. “It’s my own fault. I was working on a brand new spell last week, and I conjured without buffering the effects, so I got some kind of energy release. I should have known better, but I let myself get too excited about the charm. I’m just glad it blasted through an outside wall instead of shooting into the building next to me.”
“It’s not like anyone would notice,” he laughed. “There’s like, what? Three whole businesses on this block? You could shoot a cannon through six of these old buildings and no one would even know.” He shoved playfully at her shoulder. “Don’t be discouraged, hermanita.
“I’m not your little sister—I’m six months older than you!” she protested. It was an old argument, and not one she would ever win, the facts notwithstanding. Perhaps it was because he had three older sisters in addition to his twin, Lissy, and no younger siblings. Maybe it was because they’d been best friends ever since the first grade, when he’d bonked her with a storybook, she’d punched him in the nose, and they’d bonded while sitting on the detention bench in the hallway. It might even be because he’d once inserted himself between her and a playground bully—despite the fact that he’d gotten his nine-year-old butt handed to him. Whatever the reason, he had always insisted on treating her like a little sister, his very own hermanita. From anyone else, she might have found it patronizing. From G, it was annoying and endearing at the same time. “Anyways, your grandmother really said that about the craft, that it’s a matter of practice?”
“Well, technically, no. Mi abuela was usually lecturing me on my schoolwork when she said that. You know how much I hated grammar and spelling.” George gave a mock shudder. “But the same principle applies. You keep at it and you get better. It’s just like art.” He waved at the sketch pad in his lap. “So do you want that blog post?”
“Hellhounds sound scary and fascinating, and therefore perfect for Monster Monday. My readers will love to hear about them, and so will I, so yes, please.” She leaned over her friend’s artwork again. “So have you got more ferocious dog drawings in there?”
George suddenly flipped the sketch pad closed like a clamshell slamming shut. “Nope. Just some rough characters for a brand new series. Not ready for public viewing just yet.”
Brooke was surprised, and slightly hurt. “I’m not the public! You just confessed you peed your pants to me!”
“I know,” he said, grinning at her indignation. “But they say comic books are the purest form of art, and it’s definitely bad luck to look upon unfinished art.”
She rolled her eyes. “Aren’t you always telling me that comics are called graphic novels now? And besides, you made that up. I agree with you totally on the comics-as-art part, but there’s no such thing as bad luck.”
“Come on, you’re a practicing witch and you don’t believe in luck?”
“Of course not. People attract their own luck.”
“Yeah? What if a meteor fell out of the sky and landed on you?”
“Maybe it’s karma. Maybe it’s your time. Maybe you secretly wanted it.” She rose and straightened her blouse. It was nearly the same shade of turquoise as the walls, a hue that just happened to enhance the blue-green color of her eyes. She didn’t feel the need for makeup if she wore turquoise—which was a great reason to choose it a lot.
“Wanted it?” George looked shocked. “What the hell kind of thinking is that?”
“If you think about meteors enough, maybe you’ll draw one to you.”
“Every astronomer on the planet would be squished by now. You’re messing with me.”
“Yes, I am.” She grinned over her shoulder as she sauntered to the front window of the shop. It was time to flip the OPEN sign to CLOSED. One after another, Brooke pulled the blinds down. As always, she imagined the old building was closing its eyelids, ready to nod off after another long day.
Behind the counter, she stubbed her toe on a box with a selection of tarot decks waiting to be priced and displayed, which reminded her of another task undone. Brooke pulled out her phone and punched in the speed dial for her daily tarot reading. It was usually the first thing she did in the morning, but she’d been distracted—on purpose, by her eternally hungry cats, Bouncer, Rory, and Jade. The trio would be expecting a lot of attention as well as dinner when she went upstairs to her apartment. Usually they lounged around the shop while she worked, but Rory had been in a climbing mood. After he’d toppled two separate displays, Brooke had banished the felines for the rest of the day. If she played with them first, was there any chance they would let her work on her taxes in peace?
A moment later, she forgot all about her cats, the shop, and everything else, as she looked down at her phone display where her four-card reading waited for her. Not again. It couldn’t possibly have done it again. She attempted to punch the button that would wipe out the screen, but it was suddenly snatched from her hand. “Geez, G, don’t sneak up on me like that!”
“What have we got here?” George teased, and read the cards aloud. “The Moon, the Fool, the Ten of Stars, in the top row…and Death lurking down here underneath them? That can’t be good.”
“It means change, not literal death,” she said quickly. “And those are pentacles, not stars, as you know perfectly well.”
“Change, huh? Must be one helluva big change to bring out the Grim Reaper.”
“It’s symbolism.”
“Duh, I get that. Death’s the biggest change there is. So the way it’s hanging around at the bottom, it looks like you’re expecting a big change in whatever the other cards stand for.”
Brooke opened her mouth to say something, then closed it again. George had summed it up perfectly. Nothing like a fresh perspective from someone who doesn’t read the cards. Of course, George had always loved to look through her tarot deck collection for the sake of the artwork—most were extremely beautiful, which was why she had no willpower when a new deck caught her eye. But while she would lovingly make use of the cards, George had zero interest in anything but the pictures. Still, he’d seen what she had not. “That’s a pretty astute observation.”
“Astute, my ass. It’s symbolism, just like you said. So the meaning is kind of universal, isn’t it?”
And here she’d spent hours trying to discern a complex meaning from was actually a fairly simple pattern. Nothing like making things harder than they had to be. “I guess I was too busy being spooked from the way it kept showing up over and over again, and—”
“Oh, really?” He folded his arms. “Exactly how long has this been going on?”
Damn. She was so used to telling him everything that she’d just blurted it out. Just as well, she supposed. It would do her good to tell
somebody, and George was her BFF after all. Who else would she have told but him? “This”—she pointed at the screen—“makes nine times in a row that these particular cards have come up.”
“Glitch in the program.”
“The top cards show up in any order. The Death card is always at the bottom.”
“Still a glitch in the program. Try another site.”
She gripped the cell phone tightly in both hands and made herself look George in the eye. He had one yellow one and one purple one today. At least he’s not wearing his reptilian contacts. “I’ve gotten the same reading on every site I’ve tried,” she whispered. She anticipated his next question: “With every physical deck of cards I’ve used too. This was my ninth attempt over the past few days.”
He whistled at that. “Nine is a powerful number. Three times three.”
“You think I don’t know that?”
“Okay, two, maybe even three, times could be random, could be coincidence, although the odds are better that you’d win the Powerball jackpot. But nine—that’s really messed up, Brooke. What kind of message is the Universe trying to send you?”
“I don’t know.” What she didn’t say aloud was how scary it was, even for a witch. Maybe especially for a witch. Witches saw meaning in everything, but Brooke couldn’t fathom what this strange recurring message was supposed to mean. All that she knew for sure was that there were no coincidences.
“Have you told my mom yet?”
“No. I know I should but…” Part of her was a little afraid of what her friend and mentor, Olivia Santiago-Callahan, might say about it. Olivia was a master when it came to tarot. What if the recurring reading was bad news? Really bad news? Silly to avoid it, of course, even childish. Besides, it could just as well be good news—although, in her experience, the Universe didn’t usually beat people over the head with the positive stuff.