Freeing the Witch

by L. J. Longo

  “Well, if Mr. Navarro and your friends don’t object, I’d very much like to do a good sage cleansing over the place. Put up some protections.” Emaula waved her hand dismissively. “Most likely, it just a local witch sensing my magic and coming to suss me out. No harm in it.”

  “No harm,” Porter muttered. “Must have been one of the others, then…”

  Emaula felt a twinge of jealous rage. What others? Other witches? Her magic growled at his mistake, wanting to reach out and caress him, to assure him that it had not been someone else. It had been her. Inimitable, superior, the only one who had any right to him.

  Emaula choked down the flare of magic. “I’m sorry, sir. I didn’t follow that?”

  “Oh, nothing. I’m a little in my own head. Anyone will tell you.” He recovered with a dazzling smile. “I’ll tell Nav about the sage. But Sock does it all the time, so I doubt they’ll fuss. Uh, did you need any help?”

  “Just taking stock,” Emaula said. “And what are you up to? Not breakfast I hope, I promised Jasprite…”

  “Oh, no. Red lentil bread. For lunch.” Porter stirred the big bowl with his hand, sloshing the beans and water. He paused to find the right words. “I soak the beans because it makes the bread less grainy. In a few hours, I will…”

  He didn’t have the word, so he made a gesture of hitting his two fists together.

  “Pulverize?” Emaula suggested.

  He looked confused.

  Something simpler then. “Grind?”

  He snapped his fingers and nodded. “That. Yes. But don’t worry. I won’t be … uh, in your way while you make breakfast for Lady Jasprite.”

  “Oh, I…” Emaula shrugged awkwardly. “I didn’t mean to imply you’d be in my way.”

  “Half-Ear and Sock made a schedule of when the guests arrive.” Porter took a crumpled paper from his pocket. The writing was neat and meticulous except for a large loopy “P” written next to some days. “On these days, I will make the breakfast and lunch for them before they go down the mountain.”

  Emaula understood. The times she shouldn’t be in the kitchen.

  “Those nights there are guests so you can do the dinner and the breakfast the next day for them. So, I won’t get in your way. Though if you need help, I—”

  “No. I appreciate this, but…” Emaula took the schedule. “I don’t believe I will need much help once I’m settled. Can you let your pack know I appreciate them making this schedule for me?”

  It was a good thing. A clear way to avoid Porter. Exactly what was needed to establish proper boundaries.

  “No trouble.” He stirred his beans listlessly with his hand again. Glanced at her, then when he saw she was looking at him, darted his gaze away. A moment later, he made one last attempt to understand whatever he’d experienced last night and said in a burst, “So, do you not want me?”

  Emaula blanched. “What?”

  Porter shook his head and stammered. “I meant—sorry. In the kitchen to help? I don’t mind helping. But if you don’t want me, I’ll stay away.”

  Oh, she wanted him all right and not just for help in the kitchen. “I wouldn’t want you to feel obligated. I’m sure you have other things you do around here, but … um.”

  She smiled and against her better instincts, said, “Yes, you’re always welcome in my kitchen.”

  He arched his brow, and she corrected. “This kitchen. Sorry. It’s really yours. Anyways, let me know if you want me … um, want my help. On your nights to cook. Just ask.”

  Porter nodded and had nothing to add except his brilliant smile.

  Part Two

  Chapter One

  Emaula didn’t much care to go into the potato cellar. In the month or so, she’d been working for Jasprite, this was only the second or third time she’d made the trip into the darkness herself. Usually, Porter fetched potatoes for her, but Emaula couldn’t find him today. The other two wolves had brought guests up the mountain yesterday and would bring them down again today, which meant the guests needed breakfast. Porter had been on guard duty the night before since Jasprite took Nav traveling with her when she went trading.

  Because they were short-staffed, if Emaula wanted to make hashed browns for the guests, she needed to fetch her own potatoes. So, she tucked the hem of her dress into her waistband and descended into the darkness.

  It smelled clammy and strange, with the hollowing echo of the cave. Jasprite said the cellar connected directly into the caves that led to the heart of the mountain, and someday, she meant to expand and illuminate the tunnels and bring people up inside the caves. Emaula remained terrified she’d be lost if she dared to go too deep.

  But the potatoes were all together in eight large barrels at the base of the stairs. Further back was the wine and acres of rice. And there, just under the wine jugs, at the edge of the bamboo floor, wrapped in a shoddy blanket, Porter was asleep.

  Emaula caught her breath. The man slept on his back, one arm behind his head and the other cradling a particular jug of wine. He didn’t wear a shirt—he usually didn’t—but there was something even more immodest about his nakedness just now. Perhaps it was that he didn’t have his open vest. Perhaps it was that the blanket covered his hips, so she couldn’t see if he was wearing trousers. Perhaps it was simply that he was sleeping and utterly defenseless. She stared at his broad chest, the beautiful dark skin, the muscles of his arms and trembled before her own memory.

  Just like in their shared dream.

  When he brought sacks of potatoes up from the cellar, or smiled at her while serving her food to guests, or perched on the edge of the porch and laughed with the other wolves, Emaula could forget about the night she’d invaded his dreams. It was easy to ignore the man in motion. She’d become a master of talking to him without looking directly at him, and of avoiding him when there were no guests. She’d had the strange thought he was rather like an easygoing guard, for whenever she came down the stairs, he seemed near at hand, smiling and standing between her and the other wolves. Especially since Jasprite went away.

  But now, seeing him relaxed, posed as if to offer his body to her, she couldn’t help but stare and remember.

  Then, when she’d walked about halfway across the room without even thinking about it, when the magic reached out possessively, the wolf sniffed. His sleepy eyes opened.

  He smiled in his slow, knowing way. “Hello, Ms. Emaula. Need something?”

  Such a sweet man. Always asking if she needed help. Emaula looked for an excuse, then realized she didn’t need one. “I was fetching potatoes.”

  “Oh, sorry. Should’ve—” Porter interrupted himself with a yawn. He sat up and stretched luxuriantly over his head, flexing the muscles of his powerful arms and making Emaula a little weak in the knees. He sniffed again then said with more alertness. “I meant to get you a sack and leave it up there last night. Hashed browns today, yeah?”

  Emaula clasped her hands before her. “Yes.”

  “My favorite.”

  “Everything is your favorite,” Emaula teased.

  He laughed and looked around him and then found his vest. He apparently used it as a pillow. He pulled it over his arms.

  “Do you often sleep down here? I mean, don’t you have your own room on the second floor?”

  “Yeah.” He seemed hesitant. “But I hate the second floor.”

  “Oh.” Was it something to do with her? “May I ask, why?”

  “Too many doors,” Porter answered, then jolted. “Wait. Don’t tell Jasprite, okay? She doesn’t know I sleep—I’m not stealing the wine or anything. I don’t steal anymore. I bought this. Fair and honest, I swear.”

  Emaula smiled at his nervousness and promised. “I won’t tell her. I’m sure she wouldn’t think you were stealing either. She’d only want to know why you didn’t like the second story and the doors.”

  “Oh, well.” Porter rubbed the back of his neck. Then looked up at her with impossibly soulful eyes. “The place I was before was al
l doors. I couldn’t leave until one of the birds in a cage needed me. So … lots of doors makes me nervous.”

  The place he was before. When he was with his witch. What role he had served? Though with a body as … well-designed as his, it was not hard to imagine.

  He rolled to his feet and came over to the potatoes. “When The Munawn turned me out, I couldn’t get back into the room with all the doors, and I didn’t know what else to do or how to get food.”

  Emaula had never heard of a witch “turning out” a wolf, especially one as pleasant as Porter. “How awful of her to leave you alone.”

  “I wasn’t alone for long.” Porter slung the potato sack on his shoulder. “I got arrested for stealing food and sent … well, sent here. Now the pack takes care of me.”

  “That must be nice,” Emaula said, absently. As far as she could see, Porter did most of the caring since he made all their meals and most of the chores. “I mean … having friends like that.”

  “Don’t worry.” His warm smile melted her. “They’ll like you someday soon. Did you want help peeling these?”

  She always told him no when he asked. But today, her magic was quietly staying out of the way today, so maybe she wouldn’t. Perhaps it was all right to—

  “Porter, won’t you make us breakfast?” A voice at the top of the stairs startled her. A man from the north like her, only effortlessly teasing, among friends. “Damn it, man! You can’t sleep on days like today. Just because you were awake all last night.”

  Porter smiled and headed up the stairs. “What? Are you too good for the customers’ leftovers, Sock?”

  The littlest wolf scoffed. And Emaula realized she’d never actually heard him speak in the six weeks she’d been here. “I’m not eating the witch’s food. No matter how good it smells. I have principles. I have—”

  The wolf’s voice suddenly disappeared. He must have caught her scent. Goddess knew, with his poor eyesight he couldn’t see her in the darkness.

  Afraid to be accused of skulking, Emaula crept after Porter to the stairs and let out a timorous, “Good morning, Mr. Wolf.”

  Sock receded when Half-Ear stepped in front of him at the top of the stairs to glare, unamused. “What are you doing down there?”

  Emaula gently smiled back and followed Porter up the stairs. She’d be damned before she was chased out of her kitchen by this brute. “I was getting potatoes for breakfast.”

  Porter nudged Half-Ear’s shoulder as he passed him and entered the kitchen. “Relax, boss. They’ll be some for you.”

  Half-Ear growled, annoyed. Then seemed to change his mind. “The stuff she made a couple days ago with the butter and eggs?”

  “Yup.” Porter swung the potatoes onto the counter. “I’ll bring you a plate when we’re finished. I’m gonna help Ms. Emaula today.”

  Sock growled but said nothing. Half-Ear shrugged almost regally, which was a strange look for a man with a mangled wolf ear sticking out of his head. “Naw, make us lunch first, Porter. Theplas.”

  Porter made a pained face. As if he’d been given two contradicting commands and might tear himself in two to obey them both.

  “Don’t worry about me,” Emaula said. “I can peel my own potatoes.”

  So, Porter went his own way in the kitchen. Plenty of room for both of them and since she was only peeling potatoes, she wasn’t in his way. He fetched the ingredients he needed from what she thought of as “his cupboards”. He had so many little tins of spices and jars of powders and pots of vegetables that she didn’t recognize. From their shared cupboard he took flour and oil and turmeric if she wasn’t mistaken.

  As if she wasn’t there, Half-Ear talked about the merchants they’d escort that day, the heat, the likelihood that the monsoon season would start next week when they had an enormous run. His back was very pointedly facing her, so Emaula felt distinctly left out, although Sock and Porter both had very little to say. Porter by nature and Sock out of fear of her.

  Porter mixed the spices in with a heap of small green leaves. Seeds, crushed ginger, chili powder went into the salad he mussed with his hand. He never even looked at what he was doing, just kneaded the leaves and spices and nodded along with Half-Ear’s talk.

  Emaula couldn’t contain her confusion when he added flour and yogurt to the salad. “I’m sorry to interrupt, but what are you making?”

  Porter looked over at Sock and Half-Ear, as if expecting one of them to answer. Then Half-Ear batted his shoulder, and he realized. “Oh! Thepla.”

  Emaula looked at the mess coagulating under his kneading fingers.

  Half-Ear glared at her with his arms firmly crossed, until Sock whispered something quietly in his mangled wolf ear. Then Half-Ear raised one eyebrow. “Tell her yourself…”

  Sock looked at him with a remarkable mix of betrayal, hatred, and indignation.

  Half-Ear sighed and turned to glare at Emaula. “A savory pancake.”

  “It’s thepla,” Porter protested. “Methi templa. Pancakes are … fluffy.”

  He kneaded with only the one hand and added little drips of yogurt and then water. It stuck until it formed a kind of dough.

  Emaula stepped nearer. “Coming together rather like bread, but there were so many greens.”

  “The fenugreek leaves, yes.” Porter grinned excitedly. “Also, uh … green chilies and carom seeds.”

  He drizzled oil, kneaded and then made a few motions like wiping his hands off on the dough, cleaning all but a few clumps off his fingers. “Next, I will, uh, let it rest, while I make bacon for us. Then I will roll it into thin circles and fry. Yenna, who doesn’t serve pig meat, wouldn’t let me use bacon.”

  He grinned naughtily, and Half-Ear encouraged him. “Yeah, Yenna’s not here. We can eat all the pork we want.”

  Porter seemed both proud and self-conscious at the same time. “It’s simple and not too hard to make. I’ll give you one.”

  Sock snorted as if it was a waste.

  Emaula glanced away from the dough only when Half-Ear came down on her side of the counter, broad and mean like he had to protect the other two from her. The hostility in him triggered her magic, and without any effort from her, she saw him with the True Sight.

  Half-Ear was bound in a witch’s ropes, but they hung slack as a noose around his neck and appeared gnawed where the ends dangled. He’d escaped relatively cleanly, but if his creator ever came looking, she’d tighten that collar effortlessly.

  Emaula looked away, worried he’d sense the magic, since her power was none too subtle. Porter she’d seen many times since her magic was somewhat obsessed with him. His multitude of ribbons in loose loops and those strange old keys. What doors had he opened with them? And was he freer than Half-Ear just because it was pretty little ribbons and not rope?

  She heard a low growl, the sort of communication she associated with Sock and glanced at him. Then she could not help but stare at the little wolf.

  Sock was bound much tighter—around his head and arms especially—with magic like barbed wire. In particular, the spikes dug into his eyes, glinting behind his spectacles. But they also twisted angrily around his stomach and his arms, which Sock even now scratched as he ate the first strips of bacon Porter handed to him. The wire was rotten and rusty. His witch was dead—long dead—but her hold on him continued to strangle him. One hell of a curse. Emaula wondered if she’d be able to undo it, or at least alleviate the worst of its symptoms if—

  “What are you lookin’ at, witch?” Half-Ear growled.

  Emaula startled. “I…”

  Goddess, no wonder these men feared her. She tore her eyes away from Sock. Even raising his lip to snarl at her caught the barbs of magic and made his eye twitch. She focused on the potato and the knife in her hands and try to dispel the magic cocooning around her.

  “Can you kindly explain why are you reaching out with magic, witch?” Sock talked with the accent of a gentleman and the tone of a beast.

  It unsettled Emaula. “I… My apologi
es. I must have been startled.”

  “And you can’t control your magic?” Half-Ear stepped nearer. “That’s not very safe.”

  Emaula flushed. “I can. It just startles easily around hostile people.”

  “Hey, hey.” Porter lifted his hands soothingly. “Let her alone, guys.”

  Sock spun to face Porter with open shock. Half-Ear had a slower reaction to the dissent and drawled dangerously. “Sorry, Port. What did you say?”

  Emaula hated the way Porter glanced from his two friends to her, puzzling out if it was worth this trouble to defend her. Then he dropped his head to the bacon and heaped it onto a plate. Giving her up. And why wouldn’t he? She wasn’t—

  “The kitchen is her place.” Porter spoke with his eyes on the food, determined not to look at anyone while he held out the plate to Half-Ear and Sock. “If you … if there’s a problem, take your breakfast out to the dining hall.”

  Half-Ear climbed up and perched on the counter to eat his bacon. Sock leaned near him and scowled in silence as they ate.

  Emaula peeled her potatoes. So much tension caused by so few words. It prevented the magic from dispersing. Which most likely only made the wolves more nervous.

  Porter never stopped prepping his … savory pancakes. He pinched off the bits of green and orange dough and rolled it into a little ball, then pressed it incredibly flat with a skinny rolling pin. He plopped it into the same pan as the bacon grease.

  While the dough sizzled, he lifted his head to her with a deliberate brightness. “Ms. Emaula, why did you run from your witch?”

  “Oh. Um.” Emaula cringed. Why couldn’t he talk to her when Half-Ear and Sock were gone? “Well, I don’t care for the work, honestly.”

  “The work?” Porter prompted.

  “Witchcraft. Exerting one’s will over the world. It’s hard and not often worth the price, especially in my mother’s coven.” Emaula kept her eyes on the potatoes.

  Porter looked at Half-Ear as if he wanted help or approval. Half-Ear crunched his bacon and left this lesser member of his pack flounder for words.

  But the big oaf tried so hard to be civil, to help her make peace with his pack. So Emaula helped him. She cleared her throat and went on. “Yes, uh … her coven is a minor one. They have almost no political influence, and my mother is … rather interested in gaining more. We make magic things and sell them; it’s profitable. Mother’s very wealthy, but having a profession is considered low-class.”