“Did she give you an earful?” Keeva asked in sympathy.
“She thinks I deliberately threw Riff-Raff at Magdalene. She’s threatening consequences.”
“There’ll be consequences soon enough,” Dulcie said, disinterested. “And not the type she expects. Poor little ex-rich girl.”
“Erigone wasn’t at the gathering,” Astral said thoughtfully. “At least, I didn’t see her. Did any of you?” General consensus concluded Erigone had indeed been absent. “So how did she know Riff-Raff attacked Magdalene?”
“Somebody probably told her,” Dulcie said. “If not Magdalene herself.”
“More importantly, can she flout coven directives like that and not turn up to a gathering?” Keeva asked. “We were all meant to attend.”
“Perhaps Magdalene didn’t want her daughter to see her publicly humiliated, so she exempted her,” Astral suggested.
“The Curdle pride runs as deep as the Curdle cunning.” Bitterness laced Dulcie’s tone. “And Magdalene was more than prepared for us. The real humiliation was the coven trying to outrun chickens.”
“The Curdle pride runs as deep as its pockets,” Keeva corrected, glowering. “And both will be emptied soon enough.”
“Perhaps Magdalene wants to protect Erigone,” Damián said.
Keeva looked surprised, then agreed. “You may have a point there. From the start, she’s kept Erigone well away from coven business.”
“Meaning, she always knew the coven could go tits up,” Dulcie added. “So much for sisterhood, never mind wicca-hood. We were all expendable in the end.”
They sat in silence, contemplating the fathomless depths of Magdalene’s betrayal. Astral stared forlornly at her glass. Unbidden, a memory of Abby sitting here with them flashed through her mind. She grimaced and took a sip of her malt, as if that would somehow burn the thought away. It didn’t work and she hated that even in a time like this, just a thought of Abby warmed her in ways that were surely inappropriate for the circumstances, especially since Abby was partially responsible for the dissolution of her coven.
“Erigone’s mother financed her shop,” Damián said, breaking the quiet.
Dulcie frowned. “How do you know that? Are you a friend of hers or something?”
“More of a hanger-on.” He shrugged and toyed with the towel draped turban style around his wet hair. “But I overheard that’s what happened. It’s well known in her circle.”
Astral looked at him. “I thought her shop made a mint.”
“Doesn’t mean Mummy can’t help,” Dulcie said, sarcastic.
Keeva set her glass back on the table. “Except it wasn’t her money to give. Erigone has a lot to lose if her mother hits dirt. No wonder she’s frothing.”
Something occurred to Astral. “Bacchanalia. Why didn’t she hold to her mother’s name?”
“Rebellion?” Keeva said with a shrug. “Other witches buck the tradition of taking the name of their mothers.”
“But not many, and it’s not as if the Curdles are nobodies.”
“She’s named for her father. He’s an immortal. Magdalene’s snobby like that,” Dulcie said.
“I heard she met him in a wine bar,” Damián said, and Astral snorted and dissolved into giggles, Keeva and Dulcie right behind her.
“What?” he looked at each of them, confused. “What’s so funny?”
“Wine…bar,” Keeva wheezed and Astral nearly fell out of her chair as another round of laughter hit her.
“Oh, thank you for that, Damián,” she finally managed. “I desperately needed a belly laugh.” Her phone rang again. “I really need to switch this off,” she muttered, wiping her eyes. Another unrecognised number. Well, it couldn’t get much worse. She answered. “Hello?”
“Ms Projector.” Abby Black’s clipped tone brought her upright in her seat. “You did not come into work today. Are you ill?”
Astral dropped her phone on the table then scrabbled to retrieve it. “Ah, uh, no. I don’t work for you anymore.”
Dulcie raised her eyebrows but Astral stood and stalked out of the kitchen, even as the line was silent.
Abby spoke again. “We have a contract with your agency.”
“I’m afraid you don’t. You had a Cuckoo spell from my ex-coven. My agency will have no record of such a position because it never existed.”
“Nevertheless, Mister Mor is adrift without you. I cannot work with his level of incompetence.”
Astral rolled her eyes at this attempt to manipulate her.
Abby didn’t say anything else for a bit, and Astral envisioned her sitting at her desk, both foreboding and intriguing, as she mulled something over. “Would you consider a permanent position at Black and Blacker, then? I could make it worth your while. We have an excellent benefits package.”
She almost dropped her phone again. “Are you mad?” Astral bit out the words. “You destroyed my coven. I would never work for you in a million years, no matter how good your benefits package.”
“You might find I requisition you after the thirteenth day of the thirteenth moon.”
How rude. So what if she was Death? Anger tightened in her chest. “That won’t happen,” she said, more than a little smug about it.
“Indeed, it can,” Abby continued in the same measured tone. “You’ll officially become a hireling of Hellbent Incorporated and I can easily commandeer you. By joining now, you come on board under your own terms. It’s an offer worth considering.”
“Too late.” Astral delivered her whammy. “I’m no longer indentured to The Plague Tree Coven. I am now a founding member of The Guardians of the Gal—The Guardians,” she corrected herself. Even with her slight blunder, it felt good to say it, if not quite to Abby’s face, then into her ear directly. “The paperwork is in place and a new subsidiary coven has been formed as of this evening.”
She gleefully fanned her face with the bakery receipts signed by Old Mother Worriwort, among which resided the documentation drawn up for their new coven, now legitimately, if inadvertently, signed by the most senior of Crones, blind drunk as she’d been.
“We operate under an independent administration and are effectively absolved from any existing contractual obligations associated with the parent coven.” She sounded very triumphant, but she didn’t care. She’d had enough of all of this, including the shenanigans at Black and Blacker, with their diabolically long contracts that had entrapped so many.
“I see. So, the article in this evening’s Witching Times is accurate, for once.” She sounded like someone who had already corroborated the facts and was not pleased at the outcome.
“My advice is for you to concentrate on your princess, Ms Black, and leave coven business to us. We’re not to blame for Magdalene Curdle lying to you so she could get her hands on our money. Did it ever occur to you that she hasn’t a clue about the whereabouts of any princesses and you’ve been duped?”
“Oh, I think she has a clue all right—”
It was Astral’s turn to hang up on someone, and it felt good, though maybe a little bold.
“Look at me slapping that thang down,” she muttered as she switched off her phone and turned back to the kitchen. All three of her friends were standing in the doorway, staring at her.
“Did you just…hang up on Death?” Dulcie said, eyes wide.
Keeva shook her head. “That might not end well.”
“Drama,” Damián said softly.
Astral brushed past them into the kitchen. “She’s insufferable and she helped destroy our coven. Also, we’re in the news, thanks to Mister ‘too cool for witching school’ over there.” She gestured at Damián, who preened.
“I’ll look it up.” Dulcie buried her nose in her smartphone.
Astral slumped into a chair at the table, still angry but also strangely sad. She probably wouldn’t see Abby again and the thought left her empty in ways she hadn’t expected.
“Should we talk to anyone else?” Keeva asked as she joined her.
“No. We can do no more.” And she was exhausted, like everybody else no doubt was. “We’ve given our sisters all the information we have, and we’ve created a place of sanctuary. It’s up to them to join the dots. Meantime, I’ll draw up membership forms so the few we have can sign up quickly. And we need to divvy out the roles within our coven. And, no, Damián, you cannot be press officer.”
“But…Witching Times,” he said in protest.
“We’re on the front cover.” Dulcie held up her phone for them to see. The headline said, “Hullabaloo in Golem” followed by “Plague Tree Coven in Powersnatch!” There was also a sidebar column attributed to Magdalene Curdle. “I’ve never seen such cruelty to chickens!” it read.
“Holy Hec. She’s gone and grabbed the media,” Keeva muttered.
“But I grabbed it first,” Damián said with a huff.
Astral made a disgusted noise. “The press are a shifty lot. And the Curdles are powerful.”
“Oh, look,” Dulcie said to Damián. “You’re quoted on page two.” She read aloud, “‘I’ve barely a minute to save people,’ said Daniel Muck, spokes-witch for the Guardians of the Galaxy, bringing premier new sounds to Golem.” She glared at him.
“Definitely no press office for you,” Keeva said flatly. “You can’t even promote your own name, never mind a revolution.”
“I was misquoted.” Damián flounced into one of the other chairs.
“It’s called politics. Welcome to the big league, Daniel.” Dulcie squeezed one of his shoulders. “Now go pour another round of whiskey.”
“Hear, hear,” Keeva said in approval. “So, should we think about coven offices?”
“I vote Dulcie for our High Priestess,” Astral said before Damián could offer any more of his ideas.
“Seconded,” Keeva said.
“Me, too,” Damián shouted from the drinks tray. “And Keeva for Old Mother Worriwort.”
“Oi!”
Dulcie and Astral broke into giggles.
“I don’t think we can replicate every position,” Dulcie said after her laughter subsided. “There are only four of us. As long as we can call on all the cardinal points and on all the elements, we should be okay to make a Circle.”
“And we’ll make it work.” Keeva looked from her to Astral as Damián brought more drinks.
“Cheers to that.” They toasted each other and settled in for an evening of laughter and chatting, deliberately trying to push their troubles away for at least one evening.
Astral laughed along with her friends, fighting the odd thought where she delved into images of Abby Black. She really needed to stop thinking about her. It was ridiculous, to think anyone as cold and calculating as that could feel anything for anyone. Scorching kiss notwithstanding, of course.
“To tomorrow and all it might bring,” Dulcie called for another toast.
Astral raised her glass, glad for the supportive company in the midst of all this upheaval. They’d see what tomorrow brought soon enough.
*
Abby pursed her lips and stared at her phone, as if she were willing it to ring. Cheeky, this Ms Projector, hanging up on her like that. She supposed she couldn’t blame her, since it was undoubtedly jarring to lose one’s centuries-old coven in a contractual obligation that she had no idea had even been negotiated.
She found it all rather…sad?
Absurd. She was Death, and eminently pragmatic about all matters pertinent to the circle of life and all that. Everything came and went. Empires, kings, and civilisations, all fell before her. Even ancient covens outlived their use. It was a natural progression. Time and decay allowed for the new, for rebirth.
But she couldn’t shake it, the pall of sadness that seemed to hover over her. She leaned back in her chair and contemplated the ceiling, a very un-Death-like thing to do, but these past few days had been a little out of the ordinary, even for the business she was in.
Her task was to return a princess to Hades, and if that could not be accomplished, then The Plague Tree Coven was forfeit as per contract. Astral was supposed to have been that princess, but it became pretty clear within a short time that she simply wasn’t a daughter of the Lord of the Underworld, contrary to certain information.
Abby sighed, another decidedly un-Death-like thing to do.
It simply would not do, this continued interest she harboured for a cherubic, frizzy-haired, Fireside witch. She had a business to run, and paperwork to file. The order of things depended, to an extent, on her.
A knock at her door interrupted her brooding.
“Come,” she said, and it opened, tentative. Fergal leaned in.
“Ye wanted to see me, Ms Black?” he said in a shaky voice.
“I’m afraid Ms Projector won’t be returning to the office…at this time.” She included the qualifier against her better judgment.
“Oh.” He managed to inject the most mournful tone into that one word.
“And I will have to make some decisions about staffing, Mister Mor.”
He blanched. “Er, if that’s all, Ms Black?”
“Yes.”
He retreated and closed the door softly behind him.
A Reconciliations and now a Compliance team down. Her office was a mess. All of this could be solved if Astral would just come back, but this new coven situation may actually prevail. Now that she was no longer beholden to The Plague Tree, Astral didn’t need to have any further dealings with Black and Blacker.
Or with her.
Witch nice, came Shucky’s rumble in her head.
“How is it she can hear you?”
She listen, he said, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. Glees, he added, wistful.
Abby started to retort but in an extremely un-Death-like thing to do, she smiled instead at this most frustrating situation.
We get glees?
“Maybe later.”
Shucky made a discontented noise at her hedging, but she couldn’t bring herself to treat the situation with Astral as final. At least not yet. No matter what might happen. And that was the most un-Death-like thing about it.
War
Chapter 13
The next day, Astral was awoken by Riff-Raff’s crowing and she sat up in bed, so glad to hear him. He’d stuck around. Did it mean Myriad was close by? Or was it that Riff-Raff simply felt beholden to protect the family property? Either way, it boosted her mood and confidence, and this morning she’d need it. She marked the rooster’s return with an extra bucket of kitchen greens for the chickens, though the welcome home party was ramraided by the ducks.
Next came a long breakfast of freshly made pancakes, eggs, and a gallon of coffee. She tried to make it leisurely, but all the events of the past few days settled on her like a cloak of sorrows. Borage usually joined her once the smell of cooking outweighed the comfort of wherever he had ensconced himself for the night. He had several burrow-holes throughout the house and rotated them in some obtuse feline fashion that Astral failed to grasp. She was secretly relieved he wasn’t a snuggler, because sharing her bed with Borage would not be a comfort.
He did finally appear around eight thirty, tail whipping and whiskers quivering with indignation, and this before he spied the diet biscuits in his dish. Astral ignored him.
She was too preoccupied with other things, including her shopping list, to care. “Keeva says you need to lose weight, so diet biscuits it is. Suck ’em up, Captain Crunch.”
Your grave will be my litter tray.
“And good morning to you, too,” Astral shot back. She was in no mood for him today.
Shopping list now completed, Astral poured another coffee. She was loitering and she knew it, and she also knew why. This would be her first foray into the village since the very public split in The Plague Tree. Golem was a witching village and while not everyone was a practitioner, most households were in some way connected to the coven and its work.
“Okay, Borage.” Astral collected her shopping basket and pur
se. “I’m off to town. Wish me luck.”
They’ll hang you from a lamppost like a Christmas bauble. He cast her a dark look from where he hunkered by his untouched breakfast, as if wishing alone could turn it into pâté de foie gras.
“I see your holiday spirit has arrived.” She left him with his diet biscuits and drove her Mini Cooper into town. It was easy to find a parking spot near the square. Golem was already lively with early bird Saturday shoppers, and she wanted to make this outing as normal as possible. Perhaps it would help clear her head.
First on her shopping list was Take Your Leaf, the local greengrocers, where she needed to get potatoes, beets, carrots, and kale. The shop was as crowded as usual, but the buzz of conversation fell away once she set foot in the door. She quickly placed her order and was brusquely served. The air brewed with disapproval. Astral grabbed her purchases and stalked out with her slightly frizzy head held high. Outside on the pavement, she drew a firm breath. This was her home and there was no way that Magdalene’s supporters were going to bully her. She ran her eye down her list. The butcher’s shop was next.
The same cold reception greeted her in The Cloven hoof. She was glad to exit five minutes later with her brown paper packages in her shopping basket, fretting about how demoralising it was that no one wanted to talk openly about the previous night. A blanket of hostility had been thrown over the event instead, letting no light in.
Next door was Butter Beware, the local bakery. All she needed to do here was hand in the receipts signed by Old Mother Worriwort. It would be the last time she’d do this for The Plague Tree Coven, and melancholy gripped her as she handed over the papers.
Gina Biscotti, the owner and a sister Fireside witch, who was not part of any coven but a solo practitioner, gave her the dagger-eye and practically snatched the paperwork out of her hand.
“Your grandmama be ashamed,” Gina snapped in her broad Milanese accent.
Astral bristled. “Read the contract and you’ll see where the shame lies.”
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