Sugar Spells

by Dodge, Lola

I couldn’t find Vanessa or Thurston to say thanks or goodbye, so I left a note on their fridge. They’d invited me in and taken care of me like I was family, and as soon as my mojo was back in whack, I was going to whip them up a whole gratitude cake buffet.

  Wynn drove us back to Arroyo Seco. I fiddled with the seatbelt, and as soon as Girrar’s busted trailer came into view, creepy-crawlies clenched my chest. When we pulled into the driveway, his door creaked open.

  Girrar’s bulky shoulders filled the frame, but there was only blackness behind him. Like he’d sealed all the windows, so instead of a tiny trailer, he had an extra-large coffin to call home. “My treats?”

  Wynn moved around the car, partially blocking me from Girrar’s view, and I relaxed enough to give him an answer. “I haven’t baked them yet. We’ll come get you when they’re ready.”

  And by we, I meant Wynn. I wasn’t ever walking out by myself.

  Girrar faded into the blackness inside the trailer and the door creaked shut.

  I headed for the house, clutching the cream puffs tight and wondering about the wisdom of this move. Too late to turn back.

  Fiona let us in, purring over the puffs. She waved us back through the fussy living room decked with doilies and hanging plates, down a short hallway with two open doors. She gestured to the room on the left. “I put fresh sheets in both bedrooms, but if you’re sharing, this one is biggest.”

  When I stepped inside, I had to work to keep a wince off my face. Every surface had a layer of lace. Lace bedspread. Lace runners on the dresser and nightstands. Even teensy lace lampshades on the wall sconces.

  The decorations would’ve been stuffy enough, but the room was the temperature of a sauna. The in-floor heat was turned up so high I was afraid my sneakers would melt.

  I took a breath of hot air, reminded myself that Fiona was doing me a favor, and plastered on a smile. “Thank you again for letting us stay. We won’t cause any trouble.”

  “I’m happy to host.” Fiona offered a warm smile, but her face sharpened when her gaze swung to Wynn. “I trust you won’t cause any more damage to my home.”

  “We won’t.” I sidestepped in front of Wynn, fully expecting him to pull out another one of his I’m-a-total-badass-who-doesn’t-care-about-anything lines.

  Like that depends on the mannikin or I don’t start fights, I finish them.

  Fiona gave me a tight nod. “You I trust.”

  When she left the room, I pressed my lips together and stared at Wynn.

  All he did was stare back, but we were getting to the point where I could read his mind, and he absolutely had rebellious thoughts churning through that brain. “Please don’t break any of Fiona’s stuff.”

  “Can’t make any promises if there’s a fight.”

  That. Exactly that attitude.

  I headed to grab the rest of my supplies. Wynn would destroy anything in his way, even if it meant screwing over this deal and his chances at freedom.

  Because sometimes Wynn logic made even less sense than Agatha logic.

  He’d protect me against anything.

  Including his best interest.

  Sixteen

  Baking in Fiona’s kitchen was an experience.

  An experience I never wanted to repeat.

  I carried the most important utensils in my backpack—a set of silver measuring cups and rolled-up Silpat mats—but I still needed to borrow the rest of the supplies like bowls and baking trays.

  Fiona’s drawers felt like portals to an endless garage sale. Every open cupboard spilled out cookie cutters and decorative seasonal trays and yellowed plasticware from the 70s. There were punch bowls and ice cream bowls and cereal bowls printed with every possible cartoon character, but not one blessed glass mixing bowl.

  And I was sweating.

  Sweating like I was hand-baking the macarons over a bonfire.

  The third time I knocked over a tower of Tupperware, Wynn knelt to pick up a lid. “Do you need help?”

  “No. Maybe. Yes?” I rubbed the back of my hand across my forehead, trying to unstick the plastered fly-aways. “Are you sweating?”

  His buzz cut was growing out, but the hair still wasn’t long enough to stick to his face. He wasn’t dripping like I was, either.

  Wynn kept picking up the dropped containers. “Fiona likes it hot.”

  “You think?”

  He blinked like he was surprised I was snapping. I couldn’t remember if I’d ever snapped at him before. I didn’t snap that often—just when I was sweaty, stressed, and potentially a small animal killer.

  None of which was Wynn’s fault.

  I dumped my armful of dishes on the table and headed for the hallway. The thermostat was a dial instead of a fancy digital display.

  The temp was set to one hundred degrees.

  Was Fiona insane?

  Or did she have that much stock with the gas company?

  I twisted left, but the thermostat wouldn’t budge.

  My fire magic made me run hot to begin with, so I did well in the cold. Not in the heat.

  I’d sweat to death if I didn’t get some air in here.

  “I’m opening the window.” Who knew why, but there was only one, positioned above the kitchen sink. I climbed onto the counter to push aside the lace curtain. It took some heaving to lift the lower part of the window. The wood was warped like it hadn’t budged in a looooong time.

  But I found new muscles.

  I needed fresh air and so did my macarons. They’d come out squidgy if the kitchen stayed this volcanic.

  I was breathing heavy when the first cool breeze slipped through. A matching sigh slipped out from my soul. “Better.” I drew the curtains shut again hoping Fiona wouldn’t notice the draft.

  Now that I didn’t feel like I was standing in a lava flow, I could actually get to work. Wynn retreated to the kitchen table, closing his eyes to nap. He hadn’t been getting as much sleep with all my running around—neither had I.

  I gave most of my focus to the spell, infusing death into every ingredient and motion, but today I gave an extra sliver of attention to my well of power. The Vortex hummed stronger in Arroyo Seco than it did in town, but a little concentration and I could push my senses past its endless power murmur.

  Peggy said there was a pit of death magic inside me. If there was, I wasn’t sensitive enough to feel the difference from before.

  When I closed my eyes, my fire felt stronger—a cheerier red than I’d seen in weeks. But now there were green flames burning too?

  It was hard to figure out my magic situation, let alone put it into words, but everything I could read said the forces inside me were coming closer to harmony. So maybe soon, I really would be back to normal?

  My new normal was tea and cookies with mannikins.

  Sweaty and exhausted, I had Wynn call out Girrar so I could deliver the finished macarons to the dining room. Girrar sat gripping the edge of the table. The second the plate of macarons hit the table, I had to snatch back my fingers to keep them from getting gnawed.

  I poured myself tea, again trying to drown out Girrar’s noises.

  Another sound rose above his tooth gnashing and lip smacking.

  “What?” I turned to Fiona.

  She tilted her head. “I haven’t said a thing.”

  “Oh?” I peeked over my shoulder. Wynn had his eyes closed. He’d be ready for action in a second if Girrar made trouble, but he clearly hadn’t spoken.

  I sipped my tea, convinced I’d finally snapped.

  Then I heard the noise again.

  A…fluttering?

  I glanced up at the ceiling. It sounded like a trapped moth, flying and flying against the light, trying to find the moon.

  But there wasn’t a single bug in this room.

  My gaze dropped, landing on Girrar.

  He was crunching, gnashing, slurping, and one-hundred percent focused on his macarons. His lips looked darker and plumper than ever. His shoulders a little larger.

 
My magic was fueling him. But he wasn’t making the noise. Plenty of other disgusting noises, but not the wingbeats at the edge of my hearing.

  My teacup clattered when I set it too hard on its saucer. Was my head making up trouble now?

  The death magic kept spitting out new side-effects. Maybe I was hearing spirits?

  After Girrar licked his plate—and Fiona turned her disgusted gaze to the ceiling—he dropped another double-handful of gold on the tablecloth.

  If I wasn’t imagining things, his fangs had lengthened and they dug into his lower lip when he offered a parting smile. “I await more treats.”

  He knocked back his chair and headed out, leaving me alone with Fiona, Wynn, and the sour sensation seething in my belly.

  I wasn’t sure what was going on but something had changed.

  In me? In Girrar?

  In both of us?

  My posture slumped until I was sitting half underneath the table.

  “Something on your mind?” Fiona paused stirring her tea.

  “I’m not sure.” I wanted to think about it before I told her anything that would get my deal canceled. If it got called off, I wanted it to be my decision.

  “Casting so much death magic is bound to take its toll, even on the spirit-centered. Being fire-centered, you have a bigger hill to climb.”

  True. “I think I just need to clear my head.” Ideally, alone, but I’d given up hope that would ever happen unless I really camped in the bathtub. That sounded uncomfortable and wouldn’t solve my problems.

  “Walk on down the road. There are a few restaurants. And Taos Cow.”

  Ice cream.

  Yes.

  That would solve my problems.

  “Want to go for a walk?” I asked Wynn like he had a choice. If I went he had to go. But if he really didn’t want to, I’d stay in.

  “You’re buying.”

  “Agatha’s buying.” And I wasn’t letting myself feel guilty about using my card.

  After taking over the dishes for Fiona, I grabbed my jacket and headed out. I half expected Girrar to peer out his trailer’s windows, but it looked like they’d been blacked-out.

  I hurried past, not wanting to risk having to deal with him.

  The ice cream shop was a freestanding building across the road. It was probably packed in the summer, but on a random October Tuesday, there was only a family at a table in the corner. I beelined to the counter to order but didn’t need much time to pick flavors once I saw the list.

  One scoop of cookies and cream, one of cookie dough, and as much chocolate fudge as they could drizzle into a waffle bowl.

  When I stepped back, the cashier looked expectantly at Wynn. “For you, sir?”

  Wynn’s blank stare swung from the menu board to the guy.

  “Uh…” The cashier turned to me, already panicking at the thought of digging a legit order out of the muscle guy in gauntlets.

  “He’ll have the same as me. But half the fudge.” The sea of chocolate was an acquired taste. I handed over my black card like I owned the shop because I wanted to feel like I was in charge of something.

  But as soon as we sat at one of the sticky tables with our sundaes, my faux confidence popped like a shaken soufflé.

  I was not in control.

  As my ice cream melted, I just stared and stirred.

  “Are you not eating?” Wynn asked.

  “What about you?” I was playing with my food, but he hadn’t even touched his ice cream.

  “Not sure.” He nudged his whipped cream with the back of a spoon.

  “Wrong flavor?” He hadn’t given me anything to go on flavor-wise, but cookies and cream was somewhere between oxygen and water on the pyramid of basic human needs.

  “Not sure.” He made the tiniest bite of ice cream—like 1/32 of a teaspoon—and lifted it to eye level.

  He was acting mega suspicious…

  “Wynn.” I snapped up straight. “Have you ever had ice cream before?”

  “Never.” And he stared at the spoon like he wasn’t going to try.

  “I’ve really failed you.” I leaned over the table to grab his bowl and spoon and made him the perfect bite with just the right mix of whipped cream, both flavors of ice cream, and fudge. “Try it.”

  He pinched the spoon away from me with two fingers like he was holding a squirming lizard by its tail. I snorted at his pained expression. “It’s ice cream, not the end of the world. Unless you’re lactose intolerant?”

  “Nah.” He held his breath like I’d offered a plate of steaming dog meat. But eventually, he took the bite. Then winced. “It’s sweet.”

  “That’s the idea. Do you like it?” And would he go in for a second taste?

  He dug out a nugget of cookie dough. “Not sure.”

  The third not sure of the night. I let out a breath and went back to stirring my soup. Maybe I was pushing his boundaries too far. I could only imagine the food Wynn had grown up with.

  Mutton and hard rolls?

  Wynn set down his spoon. “Call off the deal.”

  “What?” My voice spiked so high the family in the corner turned to stare, but their looks barely registered. “Now?”

  And out of nowhere?

  “You’ve earned enough.” His voice sounded surprisingly gentle—also out of nowhere.

  “I haven’t. And my magic is still messed up.” I leaned closer to him so no one would overhear us. “If I don’t bake out the death magic, there’s no way it’s going to disappear.” It felt way too dug into my soul. “And how else can we get you out of your contract?”

  “Not worried about that.”

  “You don’t want out of your Shield contract?”

  “I want out, but we can find another way. I don’t believe you’d screw me over.”

  That we made my spoon slip from my fingers, blobbing ice cream all over the table. “You trust me?”

  “I do now.” He stared straight at me, no lie in his eyes. Just the shockingly honest truth, direct from his heart.

  A strange bubble formed between my lungs. If Wynn trusted me, no wonder my whole world felt flipped upside-down because nothing was normal anymore.

  “Then trust me a little longer?” I took a breath. “Girrar gives me the creeps, but that hasn’t changed. He wants my power bad enough that he’s not going to risk hurting me as long as I keep baking for him. I’m more worried what happens what happens when we quit.” Girrar wasn’t going to want to let me go as long as I had a drop of death magic left. “I think it’s safer for both of us if I keep baking the macarons.”

  Wynn squeezed one of his gauntlets, straining the hard leather. “I want to argue. But I can’t.”

  “That’s a first.”

  His brows lifted. “What do we do when the death magic dries out?”

  “The contract expires. I won’t be any good to him after that. And even if he wants to hurt me, I’ll be back behind Agatha’s wards with you guarding…”

  But no.

  If our plan worked, Wynn wouldn’t be in charge of protecting me anymore.

  “I wouldn’t leave you in danger.”

  But he would leave eventually. When the danger was past.

  Was I really going to miss him?

  I cleared my throat instead of asking the embarrassing question out loud. “I’m not sure I remember how it feels to be alone.”

  “I can’t forget.” His words fell out like a whisper, low and close. The soft rawness of them scraped at my heart-flesh.

  Since when was he showing emotions?

  Wynn was supposed to be all stoic and hard and I couldn’t take it if he was going to act like a teddy bear.

  I reached across the table and gave his hand the most awkward of pats. “I won’t let you wander around lost either. Deal?”

  “Deal.” Wynn gave a solemn nod before taking a second bite of ice cream.

  This time, he didn’t even wince.

  Seventeen

  A shrill bell woke me mid-dream. Earl
y. Sun barely up through the curtains of Fiona’s spare room.

  I fumbled toward the nightstand. Make it stop.

  I managed to jam the button on my phone.

  The noise kept going.

  One raw note.

  Not an alarm.

  A scream.

  Wynn was already on his feet with a knife.

  “Fiona?” I shot up from bed.

  “Yes.”

  Because who else could it be?

  “Girrar?” Would he really hurt her?

  “Haven’t checked.”

  “We’re checking.” I tossed off my covers and sprinted down the hall, ready to call out a wall of flames or just drag Girrar straight to the underworld.

  The shrieking echoed from the kitchen.

  I skidded around the doorframe.

  And there was carnage.

  Just not blood.

  Fiona stood in the middle of a hellscape painted in dark splatter. It stank like the inside of a septic tank scrubbed out with ammonia.

  Bat guano.

  Everywhere.

  Fiona’s scream choked off. She bent over, gasping for breath, but a chorus of tinier screeches filled the sudden silence.

  As my gaze rose up, my jaw dropped down.

  Bats huddled in a wriggling brown mass—a solid layer of moving bodies that shellacked the ceiling. I watched another murky blob fall and spatter the stovetop.

  Guano coated everything from the floor tiles to the lace curtains. There should’ve been a couple safe square inches under the table and chairs, but bats huddled underneath them too, carpeting the floor in a spattery layer of poo.

  I clapped a hand over my nose. “What—?” My gaze locked on the still-cracked window.

  Holy.

  Literal.

  Shit.

  I’d left the window open. All night.

  Fiona’s house was warmer than the coziest cave any bat could imagine.

  “Out!” Fiona whirled to face me, spinning so fast that Wynn raised his knife. She couldn’t see his blade. Or anything, with that much madness in her eyes. “Out of my house. NOW.”

  Yellow flames flickered between her fingers.

  I grabbed Wynn’s arm. Tugged him. “Let’s go.” I didn’t know what magic she was about to cast, and I wasn’t staying long enough to get ashed.

  We ran.

  I didn’t stop to pack a bag or change out of my pajamas. All I grabbed were the car keys. Wynn and I booked it for the driveway. We both dove into the car.