by Amy Lane
“God,” Kate said. “Seriously. None of us.” She was a voluptuous girl with brown-blond hair, green eyes, and the most adorably pointed chin Lachlan had ever seen.
But she wasn’t looking adorable now—she was looking scared, as all of Bartholomew’s friends shuddered at Alex’s words, including Jordan Bryne, who even Lachlan had to admit was the most beautiful man he’d ever seen. Taller than the others, with striking cheekbones and shock-blond hair, he looked like Alexander Skarsgård’s younger brother.
“One thing at a time,” Jordan said. “We’ll go back and get the rest of the stock. Barty, you and Kate start setting up. Kate, maybe make sure you use the smoky quartz, brown jasper, and amethyst weights to hold down the drape. You brought them, right?”
“So on it,” Kate said, nodding. “And I’ve got the sage and lavender in the diffuser.” She grimaced. “You, uh, wouldn’t want to run a protection circle, would you?”
Jordan shook his head. “All I brought were the gold and orange for success. I didn’t bring black, brown, or white. Sorry.”
Kate shrugged. “No, no. We were all….” They shared a look and let out a breath.
“Okay. Let’s get moving.”
Jordan, Josh, and Alex took off, and Bartholomew and Kate started the sort of ritual dance they’d practiced often to set up. Bartholomew’s friends didn’t always stay for the whole event, but Lachlan had to admit they were great at setup and takedown.
Except in this case they both kept stopping and looking around, seeming to breathe a sigh of relief whenever things appeared perfectly normal.
“Can I help?” Lachlan asked after a moment when their shaky hands were making him twitchy.
“Sure,” Kate said at the same time Bartholomew said, “That’s kind, but we’ve got it.”
Kate leveled a killing look at Bartholomew. “Isn’t that how we all ended up in this mess in the first place?” she demanded.
Bartholomew looked at her unhappily and swallowed, then looked at Lachlan and smiled shyly. “I’m sorry,” he said. “Thank you, Lachlan. That would be nice.”
Lachlan had to refrain from holding his hand up to his heart, because it fluttered badly. “What do you need me to do?”
“If you could shake the tablecloth out and set up the racks,” Kate said quickly. “I’ll set the stones up in formation.” She sighed. “I wish we had some damned thread.”
“I can get you some yarn,” Lachlan offered. “Here, let me set up the racks and I’ll go ask Ellen. She does spinning and weaving demonstrations. I’m sure I can get the colors you need.”
He took the tablecloth from the plastic bin Bartholomew kept for setup without needing to be shown. He’d watched Bartholomew countless times, Bartholomew so completely immersed in his task, sticking his tongue out of the corner of his mouth while muttering to himself, that Lachlan could have set the booth up in his sleep.
Which reminded him…. “You guys know, I’ve seen your booth setup a thousand times. I’ve never seen the stones or the string. What are you using them for?” Particularly when everybody seemed so stressed and out of time.
“Nothing,” Bartholomew said at the same time Kate said, “Protection.”
Lachlan’s hands stilled as he settled the tablecloth, the pentagram with the cookie in the center logo facing out toward the gathering crowd.
“Protection?” he asked. “From what?”
Bartholomew licked his lips and gave Kate a pleading look. “Kate, do we really have to—”
“Barty, there was a flock of starlings. And I know the damned things are always spinning around in the fall, but they were flying upside down.”
Bartholomew’s face—already sort of pale and hard to tan—went downright mashed-potato pasty. “But here… there’s no magic here,” he practically wailed. And then his eyes, gray and shiny and luminous, met Lachlan’s. “Almost no magic here,” he whispered apologetically.
Lachlan grinned, both trying to get him to snap out of whatever funk he seemed to be spiraling into and charmed.
Almost no magic. Like Lachlan was magic. Lachlan’s instincts had been right on point. Bartholomew was that into him!
“We don’t know that for certain,” Kate snapped. “And after those starlings….”
They both shuddered, and even Lachlan, who knew nothing about magic or omens, could tell that a giant flock of birds flying upside down was bad on both points.
“What makes you think it’s you guys?” he asked.
“We cast a spell,” Bartholomew said, surprising him. In spite of the rather whimsical name of the booth, Shortbread and Shadows, Lachlan never would have expected someone as… well, grounded, to be mixed up in something like witchcraft. Dress up for the conventions, yes. Bartholomew had a rather handsome set of bardic leathers, done in green, that he wore sometimes when he knew for certain the theme was Renaissance or sword and sorcery. But actually casting a spell?
Lachlan shifted uneasily. “Who’s you?”
“Never mind,” Bartholomew whispered. “Here, give me the racks—”
“No, no. I’ll set up the racks. You stock them.”
Lachlan got to work on the wooden racks, attempting to find some purchase. “I just never knew real witches before,” he said, smiling like it wasn’t a bad thing. “My grandmother used to leave out beer for brownies, though.”
Bartholomew and Kate met eyes. “I’ll tell Jordan,” she said, like they’d actually said something. “He’ll probably try it.”
“Try what?” Lachlan worked very hard not to break the wooden rack he was fiddling with. “And please don’t take this the wrong way, but this thing is a cheap piece of shit, and I’d love to make you another one that might actually set up without threatening to snap into kindling.”
“I….” Bartholomew cleared his throat. “Your work’s too good,” he said. “I’m afraid to even price them out with someone who knows what he’s doing.”
“Our friend Dante made these,” Kate said. “During his woodworking phase. He, uh, didn’t stick with it long.”
“For you, I’d do it at cost,” Lachlan said, only because “free” would sound too much like a come-on, and for heaven’s sake, he had Bartholomew talking! The surest way to shut him up would be to make him feel like there was something more at stake than shelves.
Bartholomew looked at the shelves and then looked at Lachlan. “Oh, I couldn’t—”
“Sure you could,” Lachlan said, deciding that wasn’t a no. “I’ll bring you the first one next week. There’s nothing wrong with the design here. It’s just the craftsmanship is a little—” He searched for a word. “—inexperienced.” To his amusement, Bartholomew’s cheeks went bright red.
“Not everyone is… uh… experienced,” he said weakly, and a thick silence fell, interrupted only by the clicking sounds of the shelving.
“There,” Lachlan said, organizing the shelves where they usually went, in an even, three-point presentation across the table, with a gap on either side for taking money. “Kate, is this fine for where you want your stones?”
“Yes,” she said. “Thank you.” She shot a glare at Bartholomew. “Barty, do you want to help him round up the yarn? I’ll set up the stock.”
Bartholomew sent Lachlan a hunted look. “Sure,” he said. Then he seemed to pull fortitude from his feet. “Lachlan, I can go talk to Ellen. You have your own booth to look to.”
Lachlan looked behind him and almost groaned. A troop of four high-school-aged attendees were gathered around the wands, each one of them wearing a scarf of one of the four schools of Hogwarts that had obviously been knitted by hand—possibly by one of the wearers.
“I’ll be right back,” he said. “Bartholomew, you keep stocking. I want to talk to you.”
He wasn’t sure if he imagined Bartholomew’s “meep” or if he’d actually made the sound, but either way, he appreciated the sentiment. Lachlan finally had an excuse to butt into Bartholomew Baker’s life, and he wasn’t going to waste a secon
d of it.
What Price Shortbread?
“WHAT are you doing?” Bartholomew stage-whispered at Kate as Lachlan turned to his customers. He watched a young wizard turn a birch rod in his fingers and thought wistfully that he’d been looking for a wand to treat with witch hazel and essential oils and let age in the sun, and he’d been trying to work up the courage to let Lachlan help him strip the branch and sand it smooth.
But first he’d have to tell Lachlan about the cul-de-sac coven, and then he’d have to explain that he was a very modest hedge witch, and then he’d have to run away and hide under his mattress as the beautiful, kind man currently charming the shit out of a bunch of high school kids laughed his ass off.
Except Kate had mentioned the omen of the birds that had rattled them all so badly, and Lachlan hadn’t even blinked.
Or, well, he’d blinked, but he hadn’t cracked a smile.
If only the birds had been the one single thing about that morning that had set them all on edge.
“I’m trying to get you two in the same place together so you can talk to him. Do you mind?” Kate asked, forehead rumpled in worry. “The starlings were scary enough—we didn’t even tell him about the squirrels!”
Bartholomew shuddered. The squirrels had been… well, single file. They’d been chattering single file across the front yards of the houses in the cul-de-sac, their little feet making an unnerving scuffling sound through the piles of dry autumn leaves. Jordan and Alex had needed to put boxes on the sides of the driveway to block their little parade route so they could even get the bakery van out. And boy, had they been late.
It hadn’t been until they’d been awakened that morning—by the shrill cries of the upside-down birds and not by the alarms Bartholomew, Kate, and Dante had all set for an hour earlier—that Jordan had groaned and said, “Did we really? Did we really cast the damned spell on the evening of the autumn equinox?”
“What does that mean?” Dante Vianelli asked unhappily from the couch, Cully Cromwell curled up on his lap. As they awoke, the two roommates gave each other startled glances, and then Cully scuttled back, as skittish as a crab.
“If nothing else, it means the intensity of our fucked-up spell was upped,” Alex muttered, pulling up to his feet from… the hallway floor? That was really strange, because the others might have been crashing in the living room because of the late night, but Alex and Bartholomew had beds.
Bartholomew had fallen asleep behind the love seat, where Kate and Josh were currently stretching and yawning—and since they were saving money to get married, it was only logical they’d slept mushed together, but they lived in another house in the cul-de-sac, just like Dante and Cully did! And Jordan, who lived next door to Alex and Bartholomew in the abandoned witch’s cottage, had slept in the recliner.
“You guys,” Bartholomew said fuzzily, “does anybody remember going to bed last night?”
They’d worked—hard—from the moment they’d bolted out of Jordan’s cottage, to finish Bartholomew’s planned stock. Alex and Jordan had started helping him bake, and Kate, Josh, Dante, and Cully had joined them about an hour in, hopefully after doing some heavy-duty karmic cleansing of both the spell and Jordan’s home, and nobody had said another word about the spellcasting thread crumbling to dust, or the wishes that really weren’t, or what everybody had said when they’d blurted out their heart’s desire instead of the carefully constructed lies on the page.
But somewhere in there, after Bartholomew had pulled the last tray of chocolate-lemon loaves from the oven, and after he and Alex had wrapped them and Kate had put the logo sticker on, holding the wrapping firm, they had all…
Just passed out?
When had that been?
Bartholomew blinked hard, trying to remember the last time he’d looked at the clock on the stove—and couldn’t.
Which made sense, because none of them had actually gone to bed. They’d all sort of dropped where they were, right?
Wonderful. Enchanted sleep, upside-down screaming starlings, let’s get this show on the road, guys. We’re late!
And then, as they’d been loading the specially equipped bakery van, they’d seen the squirrels.
Alex—Alex—who was usually as unflappable as the apple tree in the front yard—squealed. He actually squealed, and then he’d tripped, and Josh had saved the flat of poppy-seed loaves he’d been carrying, only to be swooped on by starlings.
Kate had bent over the flat of baked goods, shrieking breathlessly as one bird caught in her hair, and had gotten them into the van. Jordan, hearing the excitement, raided Alex and Bartholomew’s coat closet, coming out with umbrellas, which he and Cully wielded in a path to fend off the starlings, while the squirrels marched on.
They’d completed the ride in breathless silence, eyes roaming the neighborhood for more odd occurrences. As they’d pulled away, they’d all seen the Nine (as they called the clowder of cats that Jordan had inherited from the witch who’d left him the cottage) ghosting over fences, under hedges, and from behind closed gates, all of them with a twitching offering in its mouth.
Whatever they’d done, it had warranted intervention from familiars who—at this point—were so skittish Jordan was the only one allowed to touch them.
Alex had whimpered, Josh and Kate started swearing in tandem, and Bartholomew had moaned, resting his head against the window as Josh drove.
“This,” he said into the hollow silence, “does not bode well for the rest of the day.”
When Lachlan had greeted them—concerned, helpful, damned near heroic—Bartholomew had been torn between the urge to hug him tight and cry and the urge to hide.
Sure, they both worked the same venues—they both had to have just the teeniest urge to believe in magic, even if it was just the human magic of imagination. Lachlan had told him once in one of his rambling, happy monologues during the down times, that he and his sister had stayed up late and planned the little felt bags that covered his wands. She made them for her brother for a cut of the profits, of course, but also because they were pretty and clever and they liked to pretend people would go out and make the world a better place with wishes and magic.
A man like that possessed a streak of practical whimsy that Bartholomew couldn’t help but adore.
But Lachlan also got upset at shoddy workmanship and irritated at stupidity.
Although he’d only now said something, Bartholomew was well aware those damned racks of his had bothered poor Lachlan for a year and a half. Bartholomew had loved them a little, because Dante had made them, and Dante’s eternal quest for something witchy and crafty and creative was what made him so tolerable as the perfect organizer and reporter of life’s events.
The spell they’d done the night before—that had been shoddy workmanship. Bartholomew was supposed to be Jordan’s best friend. He’d looked over Jordan’s plan; he’d read up on all the particulars. He was their potion master, and he’d approved all the ingredients in the cauldron. How could he have let them all down so terribly?
And how could he look Lachlan in the eyes and say, “Oh my God, I am so glad you’re here. I’ve needed someone—you!—so badly, you will never know,” when he hadn’t even had the courage to name Lachlan as his heart’s desire?
“Okay,” Lachlan said, swinging around to the front of Bartholomew’s booth and gesturing impatiently. “Kate, my tablet with the Square on it is on the front of the table, the cash is in the box underneath. You watch the booths, and Bartholomew and I will round up what you need, okay?”
“Absolutely,” Kate said, with a side-eye at Bartholomew. “Josh and Jordan should be back soon. Barty, could you get some candles too? I can smell amber and lavender from here. I’m pretty sure Sheila and Gretel are on the far corner of the floor.”
Bartholomew stared at her. “You can smell what?” Yes, Sheila and Gretel’s candle and soap booth was distinctive, but they were seated by the people who sold popcorn balls, and all Bartholomew could smell was chocolate,
caramel, and butter, glorious butter.
Kate shrugged irritably. “Don’t ask me how I know! Now shoo!”
Bartholomew checked his wallet and trotted around the back of the booth and to the front to join Lachlan. He was not prepared for Lachlan to snag his hand and tug him down the end of the row to the little tunnel behind the booths that led between the bathrooms and the food court.
“But Ellen is down the row the other w—”
Lachlan gave him a patient look. “What happened?” he asked after Bartholomew got hold of his runaway mouth.
“I don’t know what you—”
Damn. Lachlan’s patient look held a lot of heft. “Bartholomew,” Lachlan said into the silence, “spill.”
Bartholomew shifted from foot to foot. “I… okay, so Jordan had a… a romantic setback last night. He’s….” He looked around, terrified Jordan would hear him. “He keeps looking to date people who aren’t worthy,” he muttered. “Or at least not ready for him. Jordan’s so intense, you know? Party girls and flirty guys aren’t going to cut it. He needs someone serious.”
“Like you?” Lachlan asked, and Bartholomew blinked.
“No. Me and Jordan… just, no. But he was so sad last night. So after a few bottles of wine he said, ‘We need to make a wish spell to get our heart’s desire!’ And we did.”
Lachlan tilted his head. That’s all. Just tilted his head, and Bartholomew felt the pull to confess everything to him—from what he’d said he’d wish for to what he’d actually wished for, to the weird way his friends were acting, to the starlings and the squirrels and oh my God the homicidal cats!
He swallowed hard, and as the silence thickened, he became acutely aware of all the things about Lachlan that he’d been trying not to think about.
The faint dark blond stubble at his sideburns, as though he’d shaved a little too quickly and had missed, and the faded freckles over the bridge of his nose.
The fact that he smelled like cedar and cinnamon and a little like lemon oil, and that the width of his shoulders seemed as impossible as the smallness of his waist.