Spell Hath No Fury

by ReGina Welling

  Aunt Mag was a bit perturbed that nearly all the old traditions had gone ignored, and she and Gran tried their best to weave some Paganism in with our unabashedly Americanized customs. A good compromise meant leaving the cardboard turkeys in their plastic, color-coded bins in favor of a plethora of gourds, corn stalks, and overflowing horns of plenty to highlight the end of the harvest season.

  “You decorated without me. Where are the glittered pumpkins?” A tradition with no historical basis whatsoever, and one which elicited a scathing comment from Aunt Mag when several faerie-dust covered pumpkins magically appeared. Some things you have to fight for and the cheery rainbow sparkles lifted my spirits enough to wash the last dregs of the dream about Kin out of my head. There would be good food, and people I loved. Plenty of reasons for cheer.

  The gingery scent of pumpkin spice teased my olfactory senses while I fingered a garland of real multi-colored leaves adorning the banister, and I was beyond thankful when Terra stepped into the hall to pop a tartlet into my mouth and hand me a cup of steaming coffee.

  “Too much pumpkin?” She bit her lip in consternation. I’d never known Terra to question a culinary choice before. “My taste buds seem off today. Of all days.”

  I’d also never heard any one of the godmothers mention feeling less than stellar about anything. Maybe Gran’s presence was bringing out their insecure sides.

  “No, it’s perfect,” I assured her through a mouthful of creamy pie. "Can't be too much pumpkin in a pumpkin tartlet. That would be an oxymoron." Or some other term that I couldn't dredge up.

  Soleil was busy readying the bird, and I’ve got to say it looked rather odd to see a turkey stuffing itself. By the time she popped it into the oven, its skin was covered in a homemade herb butter, and the scent of freshly chopped onions, garlic, and parsnips mixed pleasantly with the sweetness of a half dozen pies cooling on the windowsills.

  A knock at the door sent my heart scurrying up to my throat, and for a split second, I thought it must be Kin coming for Thanksgiving. Sometimes, when pain is still fresh, you forget about it for a moment and then experience every horrifying second all over again.

  The doorbell chimed again, and it took everything inside me to swallow my tears and answer the door.

  “Hi Serena, come on in.” I had completely forgotten about Gran inviting her for dinner. “How are you feeling today?”

  She blew by me and made a beeline for the foyer powder room, “Like someone’s sitting on my bladder.” The door slammed shut, and I felt my cheeks turn up into the first grin I’d been able to manage for days.

  Who woulda thunk it? Serena Snodgrass was in my house, and I wasn’t trying to blast her back through the front door. I only hoped Vaeta and the rest of the godmothers would feel the same way; they’d behave or incur Gran’s wrath, but I wanted zero tension today.

  “You’re going to be civil to our guest, right?” I raised an eyebrow at the four of them, who kept right on cooking without even sparing me a glance.

  “Of course, dear,” Terra assured me lightly.

  “As long as she behaves herself.” I’d never forgotten the time Vaeta witnessed my first blocking charm, which left Serena covered in bubble gum. I was new to witchcraft then, give me a break. It was a spur-of-the-moment decision that saved me from a face full of boils. Serena had deserved to have them turned on her since she sent them out in the first place. The bubble gum was my personal touch.

  “Please believe that I’ve changed,” Serena had crept into the kitchen behind me and spoke in a low but steady voice, “I’m truly sorry for all the trouble I’ve caused. I hope you can forgive me.”

  One thing I can say about the godmothers is that though they can hold a grudge against each other for centuries, they’re quite forgiving when they know someone is truly repentant.

  Vaeta surveyed Serena for a moment, and after a meaningful look at each of her sisters softened her face into a smile. “She speaks the truth and everyone deserves a second chance, but ours is not the final word. That responsibility falls on Lexi, and if she’s found it in her heart to forgive, so can we.”

  A hint of the old Serena sneaked out when she muttered, “Forgiveness goes both ways, you know. Give me a little credit for doing the same.”

  “Pumpkin tartlet?” I offered with a genuine smile. “It’s like a little bite of heaven.”

  She smiled back. “Just one? I’m eating for two. What can I do to help?”

  The brief moment of tension passed, and everyone bustled around preparing for the afternoon’s feast. If, of course, you can call flicking a finger and encouraging the potatoes to peel themselves bustling. Not that I was complaining. Despite Gran's orders for me to help with the cooking, it's just not my thing.

  “So, did you find the talisman you were looking for?” I asked Serena while she, sans magic, coaxed a ball of biscuit dough into a circle with a rolling pin.

  Serena sighed, her mouth settling into a thin line. “No, not yet, and I’ve done at least a dozen locator spells and scoured the house, but still nothing. I did find a love letter from Donny Dixon stashed in my hope chest, and one of those furry electronic pets we used to carry everywhere in third grade, but I don’t think a pink animatronic owl is going to help me out of this bind.”

  “Probably not. I remember those things. I begged for one for Christmas, and by New Years, the thing just would not stop yapping, so I tried to flush it down the toilet. When that didn’t work, I wrapped it in a towel and buried it in the backyard. I think I saw him flying around out there a couple of years ago during one of the faerie’s epic game nights. Creepy. And completely not the point. Gran, what exactly does this demigod birth entail?”

  Startled, Gran and Mag looked up guiltily from where they huddled in a corner around Gran’s cell phone. She put it back in her pocket and took a seat next to Serena.

  “Lot of factors.” Gran mused. “It’s best to be prepared for anything from a normal birth to one with potentially epic magical complications. We can’t assume the child’s power will remain dormant until Awakening; yours didn’t. You were able to use your Cupid-bestowed gifts before you gained your full magic.”

  “You knew that when Lexi was born?” Serena fished for information.

  “Not exactly.” Clara glossed over something she didn’t want to say outright, “There will be indications of the baby’s strength and proclivities, but I can’t tell you in what form until I see them. Meanwhile, the baby needs nourishment, and I think we’re just about ready to eat.”

  “Good, because I’m famished. I swear the baby has the appetite of an elephant.”

  “More than normal? I’ve heard that the mother’s body will nourish the child in her womb first, and the mother second. Is that what’s happening here?” I asked.

  “Yes, exactly. All babies require great amounts of energy to grow and thrive. Think how exhausting it must be for human women.” Aunt Mag made a tsking sound. “At least you have hardy witch blood running through your veins.”

  “Witch blood,” the main ingredient in creating a family talisman. Mingling the blood of all who have gone before makes for strong magic. “That’s why you need her amulet or whatever for the birth, right?”

  “Right. That pendant you’re wearing carries the blood of all the Balefire women in history; Serena’s talisman is the same. A material repository of the blood magic that has been passed down through the ages. When the baby is born, we’ll perform a binding ceremony, strengthening the bond between mother and child, and the Snodgrass talisman will be the item of focus.”

  “If we ever find it,” Serena muttered.

  “There’s plenty of time. Now, can we eat?”

  Not to be too sappy about it, but despite feeling bruised and broken, my heart swelled as my family gathered around the table. All the bits and pieces of it. So what if Flix was missing this year; he’d been invited to dinner with Carl’s family. The all-important “meet the parents” dinner, no less. Talk about adding stress to
the holiday.

  If any image of Kin tried to intrude, I blocked it out amid the four-way tussle between the familiars—Serena’s Morana had joined the ranks—over the gizzard. Mag ended that with an engorgement charm that made the nasty thing big enough to satisfy them all. Jinx, in a shocking turn of events, turned both loquacious and eloquent in a bid to draw Morana’s jealous attention away from Salem and Pyewacket.

  Serena kicked my foot under the table and made googly eyes at me when he launched into a tale about his tail. It worked, though. By the end of dinner, Morana and Jinx looked like they were on their way to having a thing.

  “This is the first time I’ve heard him utter more than two words at a time,” I whispered to Gran who sat on my other side.

  She winked at me. “Talking about tail does that to a guy.”

  Her dry response made me choke on a bit of stuffing, and I got a whack on the back for my efforts. Thankfully, it dislodged a particularly hairy mental image of Jinx and Morana, so everything worked out for the best.

  “ISN’T IT gorgeous out? Fifty-five degrees on Thanksgiving—how often does that happen?” Serena stretched out beside me on a porch chair, snuggled up beneath a fuzzy, almost unnecessary blanket while I sipped wine and tried to fight a post-turkey nap.

  I barely managed an agreeable “mm-hmm” when Salem pounced on me, this time only figuratively. “We’re forming teams for a flag football game in the backyard, and you’ve been drafted. Change and meet me on the field.”

  At any other time, I might have been tempted to try and get out of playing, but today was Thanksgiving and football was expected. Suddenly, getting some aggression out in the form of physical exertion seemed like precisely the type of distraction I needed.

  Speaking of distractions.

  “What on earth are you wearing?” I snorted once I’d taken a good look at Salem.

  “What? Isn’t this what football players wear?” He looked down at a cropped nylon jersey and a pair of the shortest shorts in existence with an expression of bewilderment mixed with suspicion. I’ve seen him naked on more than one occasion, and this was far worse.

  It was at least thirty seconds before I could breathe, and it didn’t help that Serena was both laughing and yelling at him to stop making her have to pee again.

  Another fit of giggles garbled my response, “You’re trying to keep the other team from stealing the flag from your belt; not attempting to persuade them into stuffing singles underneath it. Is there a bachelorette party in the other room? Go ask Google a couple of questions before you settle on an outfit.”

  “I swear to Hades, I’m going to kill that little fur ball...” I heard Salem mutter as he flickered into his regular clothes. A white button-down contrasted starkly against his supple, ebony skin. One blue and one green eye peeked out beneath the shock of white hair that remained even in his fuzzy cat form.

  Salem and Jinx, Aunt Mag’s familiar, weren’t getting along. I think it had something to do with Salem’s newfound interest in Pyewacket. Or maybe today, it had with Morana’s previous interest in Salem. Either way, I got the impression our newest addition took great pleasure in irritating Salem. It’s always the quiet ones, you know?

  “Wait, whose team am I on?”

  “You’re with Mag, Terra, Vaeta, and Jinx.”

  “That means you’ve got Pye, Clara, Evian, and Soleil. Fire and water. That doesn’t seem fair. Plus, I have Aunt Mag, and what about Morana?”

  “She’s playing referee, and I wouldn’t count your dear old Auntie out quite yet, Lexi,” Vaeta chose that moment to stride into the entryway, “Or underestimate the advantages of having an air faerie on your side.”

  Aunt Mag greeted me at the bottom of the stairs once I’d changed into a pair of sporty leggings and a light sweatshirt, her feet jammed into exactly the type of sneakers you’d expect an old woman to wear—orthopedic-looking behemoths with Velcro straps.

  “I hear you doubt my skills on the field, and I suppose that means you never heard about my illustrious career with the Harbor Harpies.”

  “The what now?”

  “Intramural witch football. Running back. And I’ve still got a few moves.” With that, Aunt Mag moonwalked down the hallway with a mischievous grin on her deeply-lined face. Only a few years older than her sister, Mag spent her youth early, fighting enough evil that even a witch of her caliber hadn’t come away unscathed. “I just hope you’re up for the challenge, lazy bones.”

  For Hecate’s sake, the woman walked with a cane most of the time. How was she doing that? A spell or was she just a big fat faker who only looked older than dirt?

  I rolled my eyes, but I hadn’t been quite as active as usual lately, and you could never call me a gym rat anyway. Don’t get me wrong; I work out. I think I took a yoga class about six months ago, that counts, right? And I definitely make it a point to walk around Port Harbor instead of relying on taxis or my little blue scooter—at least in the summer months. When it’s not too hot. Fortunately, I inherited the Balefire family genes, and they come with a high metabolism and curves I don’t think I could achieve if I had Jillian Michaels chained up in my basement.

  When I say I got the Balefire family genes, I mean literally. They might as well be a pair of actual jeans—the kind you wear till they fall apart because they fit your body like a second skin. My grandmother, mother, and I all look almost exactly alike—flowing chestnut hair, thick eyelashes, and a heart-shaped face with full, crimson lips. I lucked out; that’s for sure. And since witches don’t age the same way humans do, my mother, grandmother, and I could be mistaken for sisters. If we were ever in the same room at the same time, anyway.

  “Save the trash talk for the other team, Aunt Mag, and try not to break a hip.”

  You can’t really say you’ve been flipped off until an old lady gives you the bird.

  The backyard which, thanks to the power of a faerie engorgement charm had quadrupled in size, now featured an entire football stadium, complete with the smell of hamburgers, fries, and freshly-mown grass.

  One faerie stood near each corner of the field, tossing a football back and forth across a hundred yards with casual flicks of the wrist any NFL quarterback would envy. Terra, my official godmother, hopped daintily to pluck the ball from the air about twenty feet above her head of flowing, earth-toned locks. Flipping in the air and landing in a somehow graceful crouched position, her granite eyes shined mischievously from above high, petal-pink cheekbones.

  Vaeta pulled a coin out of thin air, flipped it up to spin effortlessly, and pointed a finger at Salem, “Heads or tails?”

  “Tails!” He called out the obvious choice for a feline as she caught the quarter in her palm and flipped it over onto the back of her other hand.

  “You win, do you want the ball now or after halftime?”

  Salem chose the safer option and tossed the football to Mag, who pulled our team into a huddle and laid out our first play. “Lexi, you’re QB; Vaeta and Terra, I need you on guard against your sisters. Don’t let Lexi get sacked.”

  We took our positions and, as instructed, I pretended to hand the ball to Salem, who streaked quicker than a wink toward the defensive line. With all eyes on the flurry of black fur, I surreptitiously passed to Mag, who hopped down the right side of the field to get the first down plus a gain of another five yards. This from a woman who couldn’t scoop her own ice cream at night because of her advanced age. We were going to have a talk about her manipulative ways.

  Salem, extricating himself from a pile of faeries began to whine about how this was supposed to be touch football and not tackle but stopped himself when Pyewacket began fussing over him for taking the hit. Salem’s chest puffed out a bit, and I swear I saw him flex his biceps at least three times.

  “All right, all right, you can fawn over each other later, once we’ve won.” Terra brought him back to earth.

  Two short passes and a couple of runs later, we were on 4th and goal and had run out of diversionary tact
ics. “All I’ve done so far is protect Lexi. Let me take a stab at running.” Terra insisted.

  We all lined up again, and let me tell you, facing a fire and a water faerie in any capacity—the tackle taken out of the equation notwithstanding—is intimidating. Vaeta put up a wall of wind that blew Soleil’s fire storm in the opposite direction while Terra slid into the end zone as if she were on ice skates, the earth at her feet rumbling into a blockade of stone that deterred any attempt to reach for her flag.

  Faeries cheat. They see it as “making their own rules,” but let’s call a spade a spade. Once the cheating ice was broken, we were in the middle of a free-for-all.

  “Touchdown!” Terra shouted, doing a little dance that would have looked dorky on anyone but a beautiful if slightly disheveled faerie.

  “All right, now you’ve asked for it.” Gran hiked the waistband of her sweatpants up a notch, snapped the ball and threw a bullet straight to Evian, who erected a water barrier in front of Jinx to send him running for cover in the other direction. Even in human form, the familiars hated water.

  “Dirty move,” I yelled, bending over and motioning to Vaeta, who hopped, skipped, and jumped onto my back to dive in front of Evian, a funnel cloud of wind turning the water barrier to mist.

  “First and ten on the fifteen-yard line!” Gran shouted in triumph. They were about to tie it up, and even though the rest of us were playing in good fun, I could tell the faeries’ competitive nature was starting to get the better of them.

  Sure enough, Soleil got possession of the ball and pushed her way to the end zone in a rolling sphere of fire none dared counter. She did her own little dance and high-fived the rest of her team before Gran kicked the ball back down the field and we began our next drive.

  Soleil and Evian held Vaeta and Terra at the line of scrimmage, earth and wind pressing fire and water away from where I stood in the pocket, searching for a receiver. Gran had Mag pinned to the ground, all pretense of a peaceful tackle-free game having gone out the window.