The Witch's Complement

by Elle Beauregard

  Cecily’s eyes filled with tears, her brows arched high. “Really?” she choked out from behind her hands.

  Scott’s nod was fast, and his voice shook. “Yeah. Baby. Holy hell.”

  And then they were hugging, and he was kissing the side of her face, her eyes, her lips. His insides were vibrating with some sort of emotion he’d never experienced in his nearly thirty years. It felt like an amalgam of sheer joy and utter terror, heady excitement, and total disbelief.

  A baby.

  They were going to have a baby.

  Cecily was going to have a baby.

  She was gonna be a mom.

  Oh god. He was gonna be a dad.

  Cecily laid her head on his chest and he hoped she couldn’t hear the way his heart was pounding. Or, if she did, he hoped all she heard in his heartbeat was excitement—not a dawning kind of dread.

  “We’re okay, right?”

  He looked down into Cecily’s wet, green eyes, peering up at him with so much love and question—and he knew they would be. Even through his racing pulse and spinning thoughts, he knew he would do anything for her. He cradled the side of her face in his hand and brought his forehead down to hers. “Yes. We’re good.”

  And they stood like that. They didn’t move for so long his neck started to ache, but he didn’t dare shift position and risk interrupting this moment of connection. He’d never seriously considered becoming a father, but he knew without a doubt Cecily was going to make an incredible mom. And right then, with her in his arms, knowing that they’d created something—someone—from thin air, he felt like he could take on the world.

  They could do this. He could...probably do this.

  He could read a bunch of books and learn what he was supposed to do, right? And, like, watch movies or something.

  Cecily pulled back just enough to look up at him and concern knit her brows together. When she spoke, her voice was low and private, her eyes sincere. “You sure you’re good? You can tell me if you’re not.”

  He wasn’t good. And she knew it. But how could he tell her that? How could he say he was scared when her eyes were sparkling like that, and her hand was shaking with excitement. And the truth was, he was happy—he was just also terri—

  “I’m terrified,” she said. “Just so you know.”

  Now his eyes filled with tears as he nodded. “Me too. I’m so scared.” God, it felt good to say it even while he felt guilty for it.

  “Shitless,” she agreed.

  “But I’m happy, too,” he said. And he was. He really was. Now that he’d been able to say he was scared, and he knew she was scared too, it was like there was room for the happy.

  She reached up and caught a tear as it fell onto his cheek, then she scrubbed her own eyes with her sleeve while she nodded. “Me too. I didn’t know I’d be this happy. Or this scared.”

  Now he was crying all over again.

  She stood on her toes and he angled his lips onto hers so they could laugh and cry while they kissed. When she wrapped her arms around his neck, he pulled her close and whispered into her hair, “I love you, Ceelee.”

  “I love you, Scott.”

  ⫷⫸⫷⫸⫷⫸

  Cecily was laying with her head on Scott’s chest. They’d both called in sick to work, then gotten back in bed, because that’s what you did when you found out you were pregnant at six in the morning. There was absolutely no way she could have helped a freshman with English 101 today or made a latte after seeing those two pink lines on that pregnancy test.

  She’d known the thing was going to be positive. Still, she hadn’t fully believed it when Scott said it—or even when she saw it.

  Pregnant? That was ridiculous. She couldn’t be pregnant. What kind of universe would trust her with a job as important as being a mom?

  Giddiness swelled her in chest. She was going to be a mom.

  Scott was going to be a dad!

  A sexy as sin, tattooed, artist dad, who was compassionate and kind. If the kind of boyfriend he’d been over the last six months—and the best friend he’d been over the year before that—was any indication, he was going to be one hell of an incredible father.

  “When do you think it happened?” Scott’s voice rumbled under her ear.

  She lifted her head to look up at him. “The baby?”

  “Yeah.” He smirked. “When did we do it that we got you pregnant?”

  Cecily laughed at his phrasing as much as anything, then she cast her mind back, calculating days and weeks. Her last period had been around Valentine’s Day—it was nearly April now. “It would have been early this month, I think. It adds up, and I remember getting a day behind on my pills on accident.”

  “Hm. Early March...” Scott mused. When he pulled back by a few inches, the smirk on his mouth was wicked and mischievous. “Is that when we...?”

  Cecily’s cheeks went warm, which was funny since she hadn’t felt embarrassed in the slightest while they were experimenting. Something about recalling it all now, though, made her blush—and made other parts of her flush as well. “I think so, yeah.”

  He’d wanted to paint her—like, paint on her body. He’d bought special paints and brushes and everything.

  It had been way hot.

  “We had some really good sex that week,” he remarked, his voice dreamy like he was reliving it the same way she was.

  She sighed. “We really did.”

  He slid down under the covers so they were face to face, his brown eyes bright and his dark hair messy. “You were insatiable.”

  He was right. She’d wanted it every night. And in the mornings. And once they’d had a nooner when he came home for lunch. “I guess now we know why.”

  His chuckle was low, smile light. “When should we tell Cal and Zander?”

  Cecily’s thoughts ground to a halt. Right. Telling people. That sounded... really nerve racking. Especially telling Zander. Which made no sense—she was her best friend as much as her big sister, why wouldn’t she want to tell her? But when she thought about it, she just wanted to put it off. Like, maybe forever. “Well, it seems like I should tell mom first, right?” Was that weird?

  Scott’s expression appeared understanding, like the thought made sense—which was good because she wasn’t sure if it did or not. “I can see that.”

  “And, like, maybe I should go to the doctor first,” she added. “You know, to make sure it’s real?” That was something people did. Responsible people, like the kinds who were cut out to be parents.

  Scott gave a nod. “Yeah, okay. Then we tell Nicole, first, after the doctor?”

  “Exactly,” Cecily agreed.

  Scott seemed to think for a second. “It’s gonna be really hard keeping this from Callum.”

  That was fair. Despite her less-than-enthusiastic feelings about telling Zander, Cecily knew it was going to be hard not to blurt it out the first time she saw her. It wasn’t really fair to ask Scott to keep this big a secret from his basically-brother. They relied on each other, and Scott needed his support now as much as ever—more, even. “If I can’t get into the doctor in the next day or two, we’ll reassess the plan. Does that work?”

  Scott gave a definitive nod. Then he brought a hand to the side of her neck before drawing his forehead to hers. “Whatever you want to do works for me.” Then he kissed her, and his lips against hers washed away all of her doubt and worry.

  When he pulled back by mere inches, he smirked. “What would you say to a little encore to some of our baby-making-week fun?”

  Want bloomed in Cecily’s blood and between her legs even while she laughed. “What did you have in mind?”

  Scott’s eyes turned mischievous as he slid down further beneath the blankets, down her body. “I don’t know, exactly. I just know I took the entire day off of work to spend with you, and I can think of few better ways to spend it than between your thighs.”

  Her giggle was cut off by a gasp when his fingers slipped beneath her panties.

 
CHAPTER SIX

  Wren pushed open the tall, rough-hewn wooden door and was greeted by a whole lot of red. Red walls lined with artwork and flash sheets were topped with over-sized red crown molding; red painted pillars sat against a black-stained concrete floor. The place was straight up tattoo-studio for sure; there was no mistaking it for anything else.

  “Hey, how can I help?”

  Wren turned to find a young guy sitting behind a glass case turned reception desk. Inside it was row upon row of body jewelry in all shapes, sizes, and colors. It was intense, but beautiful.

  “I have an appointment with Scott at eleven,” Wren said. He’d been so cool about fitting her in before his first appointment when she talked to him last night.

  The guy’s pierced brows furrowed, and he turned to the computer like he was confused. “Scott called in sick today, but I thought we’d called all of his appointments...”

  “I got it!” came a woman’s voice from behind a freestanding screen just a few stations away. “I’m just getting set up for the day. I’ll be out in a second.”

  Wren didn’t want to make it weird, but she wasn’t super thrilled about the idea of somebody else touching up her tattoos. Scott’s skills were solid, but more than that, his energy was part of what made the runes on her wrists such powerful sources of protection. Messing with that seemed like a bad idea.

  She pushed away from the counter. “I’ll be in town for a while, I can wait until he gets back.”

  “If that’s what you want to do,” the guy replied, “but he’s getting stupid hard to book with.”

  “Okay, I’m here.”

  Wren turned—and stopped. Full body pause, total brain dump reboot.

  The girl standing at the mouth of the hall was striking. High cheekbones, perfectly arched brows and olive skin. Her hair was a deep brunette, fading to a fire engine red as it cascaded past her shoulders in big, loose curls. The ring in her septum had a single red jewel set into the silver that matched the red in her hair and the barbell in her eyebrow was a dark, matte metal.

  She also hummed with magic.

  “Hey, I’m Abby,” she said after a pause spent staring at one another like neither of them had seen another woman before. When she shook her head, as though she was trying to clear it just as Wren was struggling to do, her red curls bounced against the pulled-taught cotton of her gray, cheetah-print shirt. “Uh... I work with Scott. He told me about your tattoos when he called in sick today. I can touch them up if you want—or you can totally reschedule.”

  “No, I don’t need reschedule.” Wren found her feet carrying her across the lobby toward Abby. “If Scott trusts you, then so do I.”

  Wren’s breath caught when Abby’s smile spread, bright and beaming. She was so beautiful. “Great. Follow me and let’s take a look at these sleeves.” She winked and Wren grinned. Then she followed Abby down the aisle between two rows of half-walled stations. The harsh buzz of needles could be heard behind a couple of the screens, and a couple of the other stations sat empty. Wren’s eyes caught on the station that had to be Scott’s. His artwork lined the wall above a black storage cabinet, everything was dust-free and tidy, and a yoga mat was rolled up and propped in the far corner beside a teal guest chair.

  “I’m in here,” Abby said, ticking a nod into the station just across from Scott’s empty one. Then she raised her voice as though calling to the studio at large. “Anybody mind if I crank my tunes?”

  “Just none of that Enya bullshit,” called a disembodied voice from behind one screen.

  “Hey, don’t knock Enya!” called another. “What’d she ever do to you?”

  “Enya it is!” Abby exclaimed, met with laughter and groans alike. Then she smiled that jaw dropping smile at Wren and patted a stool she’d pulled up to the padded table in the center of her cube.

  As Wren took a seat, she looked around. If Scott’s station was an ode to minimalist functionality, Abby’s was a sonnet to pacific northwest native art and metal bands. She had a CD player—an honest-to-god CD player, with attached speakers and everything—on top of the storage credenza in the corner. Beside it, CDs were stacked, the tower leaning precariously as she flipped through them. Above that, a Native American wooden mask painted in red, white, and yellow hung surrounded by art that had to have been done by Abby’s hand, alongside a couple of vintage-style posters for bands Wren had tangential awareness of but had never listened to.

  The dulcet tones of Enya’s Sail Away flared before Abby pulled a stool of her own over to the table and snapped on a pair of black, nitrile gloves. “Okay, show me your ink.”

  Something about bringing her forearms up onto the table and laying her hands, palm up, to display the faded tattoos on her inner wrists felt vulnerable and thrilling, like the first time she took off her bra in front of her first girlfriend.

  Abby made a noise Wren wasn’t sure she could decipher—part wonder, part something like she was impressed. When she looked up at her, there was suspicion in her expression. She rolled over to her stereo and turned the thing up another notch, then rolled back again and leaned across the table. “These are runes.”

  Um. Yep. Wren gave a nod.

  Abby’s eyes narrowed. “And Scott did these for you?”

  Another nod. Why was she so intense about this?

  “Does he know what they are?”

  Wren almost laughed. “Definitely.” Scott was a mini rune dictionary. Did she not know that?

  Abby sat back, clearly trying to figure something out. “All he told me was your tats were small and nothing but line work.”

  Wren shrugged. “I mean, I guess that’s true...” Wait a second. “Does he not know you’re a—”

  “Shh!” Abby cut her off, eyes wide. Then she shook her head before going on. “How long since he touched these up?”

  Wren was so curious she wanted to scream but clearly Abby wasn’t into talking about her magic in public, and Wren could respect that. She didn’t normally do so either, but it wasn’t like she met many witches while she was out checking errands off her to do list. She’d made some contacts as she traveled the country, sure, but mostly just passing acquaintances. In fact, Abby was the first witch Abby had spoken to in months. “They’re only six months old. He did them for me in New Orleans last the fall.”

  One of Abby’s brows rose when she pinned Wren with a knowing stare. “You use them a lot?”

  “You could say that,” Wren replied, holding Abby’s caramel brown gaze.

  Without breaking their eye contact, Abby took the end of her pointer finger in the other hand and pulled the glove until it ripped, revealing just the tip of her finger. Her eyes dropped when she leaned in to get a closer look at Wren’s left wrist.

  A current of magic sluiced up Wren’s arm when Abby ran her finger over the rune. It pulled a breath into Wren’s lungs and her eyes flew to Abby, who was staring at her, her pink lips open.

  She must have felt it too. There was no missing it.

  Wren watched, breathless, as the other woman blinked hard and gave her head a gentle shake before she stood from her stool and turned away. “Well this touch-up should be quick and easy,” she said, but something in her tone had changed. “We’ll have you out of here in no time.”

  “Yeah. Okay,” Wren replied, but she was distracted, her head whirring with questions at the same time it was trying to dump all of the analyzing and only focus on the witch across the room.

  Abby’s touch had triggered something in the protection rune. But what did that mean? Was Abby someone to be protected against—or someone to protect?

  ⫷⫸⫷⫸⫷⫸

  Don’t freak out. And don’t say something stupid.

  Wren was a witch.

  Wren was a living-energy witch.

  And her magic felt incredible.

  No big deal.

  Abby looked up to see Wren wet her lips with the tip of her tongue and want warmed Abby’s skin.

  She was so screwed.

 
Wren had to be one of the most beautiful women Abby had ever seen—magical or not. And the fact she had magic—and not just any magic, but magic that was complementary to Abby’s—well that was just... A moan rang in Abby’s mind, the kind she’d like to hear Wren make in her bed.

  Wow she needed to cool it. She barely knew this woman, let alone knew if she was into the kind of activities that were running on a loop through Abby’s head.

  She needed a distraction. And she needed to learn more about Wren.

  “So how long have you known Scott?” Abby asked as she prepped her machine and got everything set up just how she liked.

  “Only about six months,” Wren replied from where she was across the room. “His brother’s girlfriend is my best friend.”

  His brother? “Oh, you mean Callum?”

  “Yeah. You know him?”

  “He’s here getting his tattoos touched up, like, all the time,” Abby replied. One day she’d figure out why.

  “And you were surprised to see my runes?”

  Abby paused her preparations. Was Wren saying Callum’s tattoos were runes? Interesting. “I’ve never seen Callum’s ink, so...” she let the statement sit.

  “Oh. Well it’s intense. I’ve only ever seen it because he showed it to me when I was considering what to get done,” Wren explained. “I decided to keep it simple. I don’t need that level of protection.”

  Abby wanted to groan in frustration. She had to get Wren somewhere they could talk more openly.

  Like my bed.

  Quit it.

  She was attracted to this woman—and her magic was attracted to the witch—but that didn’t mean they were compatible.

  Maybe she was the thing you saw coming while you were trance-watching Scott last night.

  But that was a dangerous way to think. Maybe Wren was the presence Abby had sensed on the horizon for her and Scott alike—but that wasn’t necessarily a good thing. Whatever she’d sensed hadn’t had warm fuzzy feelings attached to it. And while all of Abby’s instincts were telling her Wren was someone to connect with, not run from, she couldn’t just trust herself blindly when her libido was apparently on overdrive.