Spell Hath No Fury

by ReGina Welling

  Watching through the window while Mona bagged up their pastries, I wondered who might hate the young couple enough to use magic to try and tear them apart. At least this fix-it shooting had been sanctioned. My last attempt at a bow-induced reconciliation had gone all kinds of wrong when I forced the shooter to do my bidding. Lesson learned.

  This, with outside forces acting on the couple, was a different scenario. Was it personal, and if it was, personal to whom? Me or the fighting couple.

  Watching the couple flip from hate to love reminded me of the board game Othello. A simple game with one goal, to dominate the board by surrounding your opponent’s pieces and flipping them, so their color matches your own. When the playing field is filled, the one with the most tiles showing their color wins.

  What? You were expecting something more profound? In my house, board games are kind of a big deal.

  On the cosmic side of things, I’d like to think I'm on the white team because while I do love the color black on a cocktail dress, when it comes to love, black and white carry stereotypical associations to good and evil. Love has to be good, right?

  Maybe not.

  Love, in and of itself, is neither dark nor light. It’s just a playing piece waiting to be placed on the board and can be flipped like any other. My job is to make sure there are more white pieces in play than black. Feels a lot like whistling in the dark sometimes—mostly because I’m never sure who I’m playing against. That’s another question I’d ask if I ever got the chance.

  Right now, the simplest answer came down to the person who seemed to hate me the most. My brother, Jett Striker.

  Chapter Six

  MY LOVE LIFE CIRCLING the toilet gave me no excuse for shirking work, and the idea of Jett mounting an assault on my clients demanded I make an appearance at the office and at least attempt to hold down the fort. I had a backlog of happy couple photos to post to the company website Flix had set up. Without my asking, mind you. I didn’t bother with breakfast, figuring staring at lovey-dovey faces all day would probably give me indigestion anyway.

  Flix had my best intentions at heart, and if the website garnered even a handful of clients, it would be worth the trouble. I was determined to keep up with my business even if I had a sideline job now. How odd was it that I moonlighted on myself?

  Did I mention I hated technology? Or to be more specific, I hated anything computer-related. Flix probably knew a trick to upload the whole folder of images to the website in one fell swoop while I would have to slog away all day to get the same results.

  What I really wanted to do was find my brother and clobber him over the head with a very large stick, but I’d learned that biding my time when it came to Jett Striker was usually the best course of action. Better to outsmart him; catch him off guard and really put the screws in. Though I was making a valiant attempt at stoicism, I lacked the energy to pursue Jett with any kind of gusto anyway. Patience is a virtue, but it doesn’t count if avoidance and laziness are contributing factors.

  “Girl, what are you wearing?” Flix strolled through the connecting door between our respective areas and pulled me out of my reverie. “Tell me you’re not meeting clients like that.”

  “What? I’m fine.” The defense was a reflex since I couldn’t remember what I’d thrown on when I crawled out of bed.

  “Fine? No. Nope. Not even close.” Flix practically dragged me into the closet full of clothes donated by local shops for advertising purposes. Days like these, I was glad my matchmaking abilities had a wider scope than simply putting dewy-eyed couples together. If FootSwept went under, at least I’d have a way to pay the bills.

  The woman staring back at me from the slick, full-length mirror was an absolute mess. Hair in tangles, makeup styled by a raccoon, and bunny slippers. I’d walked to town in my jammies. What a horror show.

  That Flix had been working hard to curb his empathic reaction showed when he had to ask what had happened to me to cause such a meltdown. His reaction was unsatisfyingly neutral and I had to wonder if he still harbored a grudge over our recent disagreement.

  But then, I remembered he'd become friends with Kin and wouldn't be indulging in a round of verbal flogging of my ex. And so, without taking sides or asking my permission, something he’d never do under normal circumstances, Flix used magic to re-clothe me and style my hair. Nothing, not even magic, could completely erase the haunted look in my eyes, but at least I was presentable.

  “Thanks, I...thanks. Between Kin, the state of affairs at FootSwept, and the return of our very favorite meddling Son of Cupid, well...things aren’t exactly kosher.”

  “You’ll get through this.” Flix gives the best hugs. Maybe it’s his magically enhanced empathy or something in his Fae heritage, but when his arms come around you, there’s a feeling of safety and light. “Kin will come to his senses; our clients will come back around once they figure out they were better off with Lexi Balefire on their side; and as for your brother,” Flix’s eyes narrowed to slits, and I saw a glimmer of the formidable Fae show through, “He will regret whatever soul-sacrificing deal he had to make to escape the Faelands.”

  “That would have required him to possess a soul worth trading in the first place. I’ve been wondering how he managed it, and I had hoped his little trip would be enough to deter him from messing with us. Once again, I’ve underestimated his stupidity.”

  Funneling annoyance into useful pursuits, I tidied up the closet while Flix leaned against the door frame and watched. Our long history had taught him never to get in my way when I went on a cleaning binge, but he listened to the tale of my encounters with dark energy, giving me his full attention. Halfway through, I was interrupted by the bell that signaled a client had come through the main entrance.

  Hoping the smile on my face looked natural and not reflective of how I really felt, I stepped through the connecting door and stopped in my tracks when I saw the woman standing in my office.

  I recognized her right away, how could I not? The way her face was splashed all over town.

  “Lexi, right? It’s nice to finally meet you, I'm Diana Diamond.”

  A red power suit skimmed and molded over lush curves and somehow struck the perfect balance between caring broker of love and no-nonsense businesswoman. I could see how easy it would be for clients to trust this woman on sight. I didn’t, but then I’ve learned the hard way lately that people are not always what they seem. Or maybe she was, and I just disliked her for horning in on my turf. I was entitled to be petty about my life’s work.

  She held out a hand, fingertips painted to match her suit, and I hesitated for only a fraction of a second before making contact.

  I don’t know what I expected to happen, but nothing did. Her hand felt remarkably normal. No jolt, no tingle. It pained me that I couldn’t ask what brand of lotion she used to make her skin so soft, but I’d never in a million years admit to even the tiniest weakness, so I stuck to exchanging pleasantries while wondering what she wanted.

  “You’re my idol, you know,” Diana continued. “The way you put couples together without relying on any sort of modern methods or technology. It’s remarkable how your little business seems to work. I’ve been watching you for months. Your success rate is stellar.”

  Okay, now that was weird. How could she know anything about my success rate? I don’t advertise, I don’t post stats on a website, or a blog. I don’t crow about my accomplishments. Had she been contacting former clients? Spying on me? And don’t think I missed the slightly condescending use of the word “little” because I definitely caught it.

  “Umm. Thanks.” You creepy woman. I left that part off. “I’m not much for being in the spotlight. It’s all about the matches.” I hadn’t meant it as a subtle dig. Or if I did, it came from somewhere in my subconscious.

  “Of course, my clients’ relationships come first; my methods are simply more lucrative than yours.”

  Flix fixed her with the kind of assessing gaze that was as revealing as
an x-ray. What he said next would be meant to give me his opinion of her, and I paid attention.

  “When greed feeds ambition, it’s a dangerous combination; we prefer to supplement ours with generosity.”

  Diana’s face changed. The mask of politeness fell away to reveal a cool, hard surface underneath. Her idol? My patootie. She’d come here to throw down some kind of gauntlet, though I wasn’t sure what kind or why. I hadn’t been garnering enough business lately to qualify as a rival.

  “You couldn’t imagine what motivates my ambition. I came here to let you know there’s no animosity; business is business. I just wanted to meet the illustrious Lexi Balefire for myself, get a peek behind the curtain, as it were.” With that, Diana Diamond scanned my office, tilted her nose up slightly, nodded once in my direction, and threw a red and white square of paper on my desk before taking her leave.

  “What the heck was that all about?” I frowned at Flix and picked up the offending piece of paper—a business card styled to resemble a playing card, but with Diana’s phone number and email address printed across the back.

  “Don’t worry, that skanky wannabe will crawl back into her hole when she figures out she can’t out Lexi the Lexi Balefire. She might call herself the queen of hearts, but you’re the real deal.” Part of me still wished he'd used that same fire when talking about Kin.

  “I certainly hope so.”

  Now that we were alone again, I felt what little energy I had been holding onto deflate along with my spirits. The two clients I met with that afternoon received stellar service, but only because I could still see Diana Diamond’s smug face smiling at me and refused to let the encounter negatively affect business.

  She put a chink in my armor, though. One big enough that when the professional misery overtook me, it popped the locked box where I kept my private pain. Utter heartbreak flooded back and dragged me along in its undertow until I felt bruised and bloody.

  “Go home and get some rest.” Flix’s look of pity was too much for me to bear, and for once I followed his advice without argument. As vehemently as I’d tried not to succumb to my emotions, a broken heart wants what it wants. It was time to wallow, whether I relished the idea or not.

  APPROXIMATELY three days and four pints of my favorite faerie-conjured, discontinued flavor of Ben and Jerry’s—Bovinity Divinity, white and milk chocolate swirl with little cow-shaped chunks of more white and milk chocolate—and countless boxes of tissues later, I hit the ignore button on my cell phone and sent yet another call to voicemail.

  I groaned when I noticed the number of pending messages from Mona Katz, feeling zero remorse for the slight. Why does everyone think the answer to all of life’s difficult situations is to talk about it? Talking doesn’t fix everything, and it certainly wasn’t going to make the hole in my chest any smaller. Picking at a wound only invites infection, tears away the ragged edges to make room for greater pain. No thank you.

  My bedroom looked as though a garbage truck had upchucked all over it, and I’d intentionally blocked Terra’s cleaning charms along with any noise from below. Heavy drapes pulled tight kept out even a sliver of sunlight, and to be honest I had no clue what time or even what day it was.

  When you’ve spent the entirety of your life feeling abandoned by your family, those emotions tend to rear their ugly heads on a hair trigger. Yes, I’d been blessed with four faerie godmothers to replace the biological one I’d lost, but feeling loved doesn’t always negate the pain of betrayal. Raw deal for the ones who do the loving and raising, but I’d like to think I’ve appropriately shown my gratitude. In the moment, though, since that’s where my mind wanted to go, I concentrated on the hurtful absences in my life rather than the loving presences.

  And back down the rabbit hole I fell, letting waves of despair at Kin’s betrayal and abandonment roll over me in their oxymoronic symphony of gentle, coaxing swells and turbulent, crushing billows, fusing with the pieces of me that had been treading in those waters for years. Past, present, and my lost future came together to be mourned all at once, and the force of it dragged me through the dirt, ripped me apart at the seams for what felt like the 259,200th time in as many seconds.

  Reason takes a back seat when you’re in the throes of an all-out mental breakdown, and without a compass to guide you back to sanity, the process drags on for as long as you’ll let it. Somewhere, deep inside me, the bow carrier stirred, and I could feel her irritation palpitating my nerves to the brink of insanity. I ignored it, and her.

  The deluge of tears pinched my eyes closed until eventually I fell back to sleep on a crumpled bag of Reese’s Pieces, fully covered by a thick down comforter that failed to do what its name promised considering it still smelled faintly of Kin’s aftershave.

  Dreams always have a way of manifesting your greatest hopes and fears, and sometimes they do so in the most painful way possible. Emotional exhaustion gave way to deep sleep, but the blessed blackness burst into technicolor as I rode the long, sturdy ash handle of a broom and streaked across the sky.

  Somewhere down below, I could hear the tortured cry of a familiar voice—Kin’s voice, I knew without knowing, in one of those split seconds where you realize you’re dreaming, but you don’t wake up. I wouldn’t have, even if I wanted to, because Kin’s pain was like a siren’s song to me and I’d do anything to save him whether he loved me or not.

  Dipping low, I felt the night wind in my hair and could see blades of grass dancing in the light of the full moon, though my dream eyes couldn’t penetrate the darkened perimeter of the forest where Kin’s cries echoed.

  And then I was running through the trees, searching for what seemed like hours before stumbling into a clearing where I saw Kin, chained to a pyre of licking Balefire.

  He called to me, screaming my name over and over. It sounded like a curse in my ears and stripped the metaphoric skin from my bones.

  Balefire is my element. In the same way the godmothers command earth, air, fire, and water, I serve this sacred flame. Its heat heals me, feeds my magic in a symbiotic relationship. Why, then, was the Balefire burning my one true love to ash?

  Stepping into the flame, I felt its fingers tickle harmlessly across my skin until my questing hand touched Kin’s arm and agony took me over. Burning, empty, hollowed out. The fire consumed him. Racing against time, I ignored everything except the knots that held him captive, burrowed my fingers into their coils to loosen them enough to set him free. The more I tried, the tighter his bonds.

  The rain of my tears hissed and healed him where they touched, but only for a moment and the burning began anew.

  I woke up in a pool of tears and sweat, screaming into my magically soundproofed room. Realizing it doesn’t matter if a falling tree makes a sound when there’s nobody there to hear it, I bit off my sobs abruptly and headed for the bathroom.

  The face I saw staring back at me from the mirror wasn’t entirely unfamiliar; Kin’s not the first man I’ve ever cried my eyes out over. When you can sense your boyfriend’s true soul mate—and it isn’t you—falling in love with the wrong man becomes at best an exercise in futility, and at worst self-torture of the heart.

  Most of those exes moved on quickly, some with my help, whether they knew it or not. Others sent flowers, continued trying to woo me, eventually skewing so far toward needy I might not have dated them again even if they had been my soul mate.

  Seeing Kin trapped in the Balefire—basically trapped in me and my crazy life—was a moment of clarity. Who could blame him for wanting someone who doesn’t have to charter a private plane to haul their emotional baggage back and forth? He’d wanted out, and he found the perfect excuse—a tall blond the exact opposite of Lexi Balefire.

  Chapter Seven

  “LEXI BALEFIRE, THIS has gone on long enough.” Gran burst into my bedroom with Salem at her heels.

  “You’re bogarting the beanbag chair, and I’ve hit my limit.” He whined as if his favorite sleeping spot should be my biggest concern.


  Gran flung the curtains open and flicked her finger at the ankle-deep mish mash, which then started to organize itself into piles of clean and dirty clothes, garbage, and assorted candies that had gone rogue and hidden beneath my bed covers. There was a Skittle stuck to my face, and I just didn’t care.

  “Today is Thanksgiving, and you’re going to participate with the rest of the family. You know I love you to the moon and back, but you’ve wallowed long enough, and if you don’t get out of that bed, there will be consequences.” Gran’s tone brooked no refusal, but she shot another pointed look at me for good measure before heading back downstairs. “I expect you clean, dressed, and in the kitchen peeling potatoes in no less than half an hour. Don’t make me come back up here,” she warned.

  I glowered at the door after she left and heard her tinkling laugh from down the hall, “I saw that.”

  Lexi, let yourself feel the pain, everyone had said following the breakup—and now that I was allowing myself to fully delve, I was expected to get over it just like that. Damned if I did and damned if I didn’t.

  I’d never mention it to Gran, but the shower felt amazing, and I took my time relishing the hot water cascading over my skin, washing the residue from the last few days down the drain.

  My face looked paler than usual, and my eyes were still a bit puffy from crying, but I was at least wearing a respectable outfit when I descended the stairs thirty minutes later. A flurry of sounds reverberated through my bedroom door, and I knew when I returned, all evidence of my funk would be gone.

  One thing I have to say about living with a group of magical beings: holidays rock. It’s perfectly acceptable—more like insisted upon, if you want to get technical about it—to go completely over-the-top when it comes to decorating. I think it took the faeries at least a decade of living with humans to understand that not all holidays were created equal. We’ve stopped celebrating George Washington’s birthday with the same fanfare as Christmas, but Thanksgiving was still a banner day in the Balefire household.