To Spell & Back

by ReGina Welling

  “Yes,” I answered softly, averting my gaze.

  “That’s a story for another time, lass, but it has nothing to do with your mother if that’s what’s worrying you. I promise to tell you more than you want to know about my adventures, but not until after we sort this all out.” Mag winked, inciting exponentially more curiosity than her response had quelled.

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  I DID AS I WAS TOLD, pulling the lever and following Mag across the threshold of the fireplace and into my sanctum. Except that the minute she entered, it didn’t seem entirely mine anymore. It was as if the room was welcoming her home by bending to Mag’s will. In a flurry of motion that happened so quickly I had trouble following, several pieces of furniture rearranged themselves, and the shelves produced a number of items I’d never seen before.

  The tufted settee I usually lounged across for a late afternoon nap maneuvered itself to the other side of the room and hunkered under a porthole window that hadn’t been there before. Two Georgian armchairs upholstered in tattered, gaudy brocade that must have dated back to the sixteenth century—judging by the odor of mothballs and mold I’d whiffed before stuffing them into a closet several weeks prior—had emerged from the recesses, looking almost unrecognizable given they were now in perfect condition.

  Between them sat a low, round, equally antiquated table draped in lush crimson velvet, at the center of which squatted the large, clear quartz crystal gazing ball I’d come to think of as my own. Jealousy flared up and painted the backs of my eyeballs green for the few seconds it took to recognize how uncharitable was the emotion. This had been Mag’s place long before mine.

  Mag puttered over to the alchemy lab, which quickly arranged itself into what I guessed was her preferred configuration, and pulled a cigar box from the shelf beneath the table’s edge.

  “Why didn’t the room do this when I brought Sylvana here?” I blurted before it occurred to me that my mother might not be a good topic of conversation to bring up at that precise moment.

  Something about Mag’s laugh echoed familiar to me, though I couldn’t ever remember hearing it before, “because your mother never showed her environment enough respect for it to cooperate. You get out what you put in, never forget.”

  She flipped the cover to reveal an exquisitely worked case hidden inside the simple cigar box. A tiny lock held the case closed. “Okay, this is it, but we need the key. And for that, I’ll have to brew a potion.”

  “What now?”

  “The Enchanter’s Ruse.” Salem piped up. I hadn’t realized we’d been followed until I turned around and saw all four faeries, my familiar, and Kin standing near the Balefire. In my haste, I’d forgotten to close it behind me.

  “It’s a way of hiding things using a series of fail-safes. I’m guessing the potion’s not all you need.” He directed the last bit toward Mag as the six members of my motley crew found places to settle in and sate their curiosity. Mag didn’t seem to mind, so neither did I.

  “You are correct. Lexi’s carrying another useful item,” Mag pointed at my chest.

  “The Stone of Blood?” That made sense.

  “No, the compass.” She retorted with a look that made me think she might be wondering just how bright I was after all. “We need something already made of living gold. That was Mother’s caveat. Their wedding bands—hers and Daddy’s—were made of it, so she knew she’d always be able to get to her tools. The bow might have worked too if it were still in one piece. In a pinch, I can use the casting circle, but it’s awkward.”

  I didn’t want to sound any stupider than I already felt, so I refrained from asking another question, even though I was nearly biting my tongue off with the effort.

  “Then what?” Kin asked with unchecked curiosity. Sending him a silent thank you, I awaited Mag’s response.

  “We get the chisel, use it on my sister’s amulet, extract the nugget, and fix the bow.” Well, duh.

  Fascinated, I perched on the edge of an old cherry red and chrome chair right out of a diner in the 1950’s and doubled as a step stool if you lifted and pulled the bottom two rungs from beneath the seat. I didn’t want to miss one second of watching a Balefire witch at work. My aunt looked much more vital while spellcasting; her arms whirling around as if conducting a bizarre orchestra while ingredients and tools marched or floated from various shelves and crevices around the space.

  The only thing missing was a sprightly tune playing in the background.

  A fat black cauldron dislodged itself from the bottom of a pile stacked precariously on a rickety wooden shelf, but couldn’t quite make the jump from the floor to the kettle stand. I swear, it looked chagrined as it stopped moving, raised its handle to the upright position, and allowed Mag to heft it into place before Kin or Salem could offer a bit of manly assistance.

  I noticed how she commanded her tools to do her bidding, but handled each ingredient with care, chopping neatly and measuring precisely when necessary. So different from the faeries, who were already so closely connected to the elements their magic often seemed automatic and devoid of any underlying intent. I’d long ago guessed that wasn’t the case, but watching a trained witch made me see where the similarities between the two brands of magic ended.

  Two unicorn tail feathers, a tablespoon of moose snot, and a few other seemingly random ingredients later (Mag provided the required scream of an old hag herself), my aunt held up a neon purple test tube and declared herself ready to proceed. I handed over the compass with carefully masked difficulty, reluctant to allow anyone else to touch it. Even armed with the knowledge that Mag had done nothing so far but help me, and that she probably wanted Clara restored even more than I did, handing over the compass felt a lot like losing control, which didn’t sit well with me.

  Did I mention I have trust issues?

  “Here comes the unpleasant part.” Mag grimaced as she poured the contents of the beaker down her throat. Euw, moose snot. Even though I’d known all along she was planning on drinking the concoction I wanted to gag when I saw it happen. Mag’s entire body began to heave as though she felt the same way.

  Quite unexpectedly, a tiny, ornate silver key popped out of her mouth and landed in her outstretched palm.

  Looking no worse for the wear, Mag grinned and held it aloft for everyone to see. You can bet your butt I would be choosing a new location for the little key—sans the gross—as soon as I could. Unless, of course, Mag decided to take the chisel when we were finished harvesting the living gold. She had more right to her mother’s tools than I ever would.

  I added dousing the key with disinfectant to my list as well. Essence of stomach acid. Ugh. Not my thing.

  Fitting the key into the lock, she turned it and surprised me yet again when I expected her to come up with the chisel and music came out instead. Hey, other than it being a tool of some sort, I wasn’t entirely sure what a chisel even was, how was I supposed to know how big it might be?

  Wordlessly, but with a wink in my direction, she strode over to a bookshelf across the room and picked up a chest about the size of a shoe box. It was so ordinary I couldn’t tell you whether it had been tucked between the spines of Curses and Maledictions For Special Occasions and The Varied Uses of Graveyard Dust, Volume 4 before Mag entered the sanctum or not.

  It might have appeared ordinary, but the plain wooden container veritably hummed with power as Mag set it down beside the music box and made a few painstaking adjustments to line the two up in perfect proximity, about a half inch apart. She touched a hidden spring, and I finally got my soundtrack.

  Waving the compass over the pair in an intricate pattern, Mag whispered, “Apertus.”

  A sparkling mote of light zigged and zagged down the space between the two boxes, then circled them twice. I could see why using the casting circle would be Mag’s last ditch choice. Duplicating the complicated hand gesture while holding the boxes in perfect alignment might be enough to drive a witch off the deep end.

  Light wi
th a delicate purple tinge flared from under the simple, wooden lid which popped open on its own. Mag reached inside and pulled out a slender shaft that was flat on one end and tapered to a point on the other. With a triumphant smile, she clapped the lid closed again. Yeah, I definitely would have noticed if that box had been here all along, humming at me.

  With the compass lending its weight to my neck once again, I was able to relax and begin worrying about the next stage of the plan. Mag had handed it over easily enough, though I could have sworn there was a nanosecond of hesitation before her fingers released the chain. I chalked it up to arthritis and decided I could forgive the curiosity any witch would feel regarding an item forged by the gods.

  “Are you ready, dear?” Mag asked. She was already halfway out the fireplace entrance before I could reply. I guess the question was rhetorical.

  “I want you four to promise me you won’t interfere and get yourselves shut out of Faerie for even longer.” I put on my best serious face and cornered the godmothers at the front door while Mag, Salem, and Kin filed outside to gather around Clara’s stoned form.

  “Alexis Penelope Balefire, we can take care of ourselves and make our own decisions.” Terra retorted, brushing off my concerns with a wave of her hand. “You will not stop us from protecting you if the situation gets out of control. Like before, with the eaf—”

  “Stop reminding me about that!” I swear, you let one rampaging Faebeast in the house, and you have to hear about it forever.

  “Remember how it nearly killed you and Salem both? We’ll take every precaution, Fae laws be damned, and that’s final.” The other three nodded in agreement.

  If she was using my middle name, I knew Terra meant business, but I’d sooner eat a basket of Carl’s dirty gym socks than cost them any more than I already had.

  I heaved a sigh. There was no use arguing if the faerie’s minds were made up. I’d just have to make sure everything went off without a hitch, leaving nothing to tempt them into the fray.

  A yowl from Salem let me know people were waiting, so with one more useless warning look over my shoulder we made our way to the clearing and gathered around Clara’s effigy. The faeries paid me the courtesy of maintaining some distance from the center of the action, positioning themselves at the four corners—north, south, east, and west—aligned with the element they each commanded. Kin was the only one who remained outside the circle, and that’s where I preferred him to stay—safely out of harm’s way. And if he did end up needing help, not only would I accept the blame for the godmothers angering everyone in the Faelands, I’d insist upon it.

  “...always uses far more power than she needs to, and this is a delicate operation...” I overheard Salem speaking to Mag as I approached.

  “You think I’m not up to it, Salem?” I challenged, giving him a look that clearly said he’d be eating kitty kibble for weeks if I wasn’t happy with his answer.

  Salem stared intently at his shoes, tracing a line in the dirt with his toe, “Of course not, Lexi. I’m just filling your Auntie in on the ways the lack of close family affected your training.” The insult to Mag was mildly offered, but no less pointed in its intent. “You can’t deny your touch is a little heavy handed at times.”

  “You mean you’re airing out all my dirty laundry.” I pinned him with a narrow-eyed glare.

  “Hush, now.” Mag implored, stepping between Salem and me, “let’s begin.”

  I waited for her to start some kind of spell but all she did was pick up a fist-sized rock.

  “You’ll have to be quick,” she cautioned. I nodded as if I had the first clue what she was talking about and leaned forward. What good I thought that did, I couldn’t say.

  Mag laid the chisel into the ridge where the amulet rested against Clara’s bosom and lifted the rock. Tink. Tink. Tink. The sound rang out, and the chisel slid through the granite like butter.

  “Get hold of it now, girl.” Between clenched teeth, Mag issued the order and I rushed to do her bidding. She was fast for a woman of advanced age, but the granite was faster; by the time the chisel made its way around to finalize the cut, the stone had already begun to heal.

  Breathing hard from exertion, Mag lifted a tear-stained face and showed me a smear of blood along the sharpened edge of the tool. And now I understood why the chisel was not the way to free Clara.

  Laying the back of her hand against her sister’s stoned cheek, Mag whispered, “Sorry, Sis. I didn’t mean to hurt you.”

  Whether Clara heard the apology or not, I couldn’t face another bloody attempt. My hands quivered and shook.

  “I think we’re on the right track, but we’re not trying again until we refine the process.” If my voice also shook a little, it was probably from issuing so strong a statement to a senior witch.

  Honestly, I thought Mag looked a little relieved. She sank onto the nearby bench and contemplated her sister gravely. The personal agony Mag experienced while causing her sister pain raised my aunt higher in my estimation and dispelled the last notion Sylvana had planted in my head.

  I joined her on the bench and waved for the others to go back inside to give us some privacy. Clearly, nothing dangerous had happened, and it was best to let us sort this out on our own. Salem tossed me a dirty look when I indicated he should follow the others, but went without argument. I’d probably get to hear his opinion later, though.

  “Too slow. These old hands aren’t what they used to be,” Mag’s fingers set the fluttery wisps of white hair on end. “You think you could handle the chisel? I can teach you how.”

  Nope. That was the last thing I wanted and the look on my face must have been enough to tell Mag so.

  “Is there another tool? Like a knife that has more precision? What if I used one of the arrows?”

  “No knife and the arrows are meant for piercing, not cutting. It would be like sawing at a steak with a butter knife.” Mag shook her head emphatically.

  I shuddered at the memory of the crimson-stained chisel.

  “Well, do we have to get the amulet off of her?”

  Mouth dropping open, Mag jumped up and took a closer look. She must have liked what she saw because she did a dance around her sister that Michael Flatly would have appreciated. Who would have suspected she still had it in her?

  Then she pulled off her own amulet and set about experimenting on it. I think a semi loaded with lead could have run over the thing without making a dent, but Mag persisted until she found the single weakness she’d been searching for.

  “Look, Lexi. If I hit straight on the hinge, it will pop open like a clam shell. Then I think I can run the chisel around from here to here,” a claw-like finger indicated the stopping and starting points, “And if the granite is thin enough, I should be able to pry it open far enough for the compass to access the gold. You’ll have to be fast, and it might take a few tries, but we won’t be causing her any more pain.”

  I agreed, and we set to work.

  Sun beating down on us relentlessly, sweat trickled down my back and moistened my brow. Half an hour later, amid a rush of activity, I heard the sound a chunk of gold makes when it hits the inside of the compass and let out a shout of relief that made Mag jump and toss a reflexive spell. Two bushes and a rock exploded into flame, and we had to call Evian to put them out.

  But, we had the last piece of living gold, and something Mag had said was still squatting in the back of my mind while I rode the high of a job well done.

  With the living gold safe inside my father’s compass, at last, I wanted nothing more than to retreat to the sanctum and repair the Bow of Destiny; to hold it in my hands and for the very first time hear the call of countless fates just waiting for me to seize my destiny. After discovering just what that entailed, I’d mulled and agonized over exactly what it would mean to be a Fate Weaver; how to reconcile the two halves of myself. I’d wondered whether carrying on Cupid’s work would make me less of a witch—less of a Balefire.

  When I’d first gone
searching for the bow at Shadow Hold, I’d had to mash both visions of myself together. Witch to God. Inherited power to inherent. But how closely linked those two halves were had never hit home quite so poignantly as right then, with my grandmother’s final cache of living gold captured inside Cupid’s compass.

  By now, the process of repairing the bow was second nature to me. Its response to the final repair, however, went a bit over the top. A wet finger run around the rim of good crystal makes it sing with a clarity so pure it sets camp in the bones behind your ear and rattles them silly. Two seconds after it started I wished for it to stop.

  I didn’t sign on for having a living weapon carrying on a constant conversation in my head, but what was I going to do? Complain to the Annoying Sentient Item of Power Bureau?

  Can you tone it down a bit? I sent the thought in the general direction of the noise which took a feat of mental gymnastics, but if we were going to share head space, some of us were going to have to develop decorum. The din reduced by several decibels and softened to an up-tempo piece I took to mean the bow was happy.

  “Be nice to have a clue how this thing works. I mean, I know how to shoot an arrow, but am I supposed to carry it around with me all the time? Because that’s not going to be good for business. I’ll be the whackjob with the golden bow—that’s what they’ll call me. Goddess knows I don’t think I thought this through.” The adage of being careful what you wish for was taking on a new meaning in a hurry.

  It was one thing to know I would have the privilege of wielding Cupid’s bow—despite the family dysfunction—and quite another to strap that puppy on my back and walk around town on a daily basis.

  “I’m sure you’ll figure it out, and something tells me you already have a pretty good idea what you need to do to restore my sister.”

  Did I?

  Leaving the bow where it sat, I paced the room while the others, blessedly, remained silent. The task was for me alone to complete, and it seemed the godmothers were willing to let me work it through by myself. This adulting thing isn’t as easy as it looks.