A Spell to Die For

by Gretchen Galway

  “She told me to assure you she is alone. She’s in the master suite at the end of the west wing.” The woman gestured to her right.

  Curious. A bride would usually surround herself with family, friends, and a mentor in the hours before midnight. The nightly rituals were intimidating, and most kept trusted advisors at their side to prepare them, comfort them, and in some cases I’d heard, stop them from bolting out of nerves.

  If that’s what Vera hoped to get from me, she’d be disappointed. “All right,” I said. “Of course.”

  I walked past the woman, who didn’t follow, and turned down the hallway. The second floor seemed more comfortable than below, with lower ceilings, wood floors, earth-toned walls. Vera, in a flowing white dress, was waiting for me in the doorway at the end.

  “Alma!” she called, waving me forward. “Come in, come in.”

  The bedroom was huge, taking up the entire northwest corner of the house, and smelled like roses, probably because of the countless bouquets around the room—red, apricot, pink, white, cream. They were unusually diverse in shape and scent, suggesting they were picked in a private English garden in May, not a commercial greenhouse in November. I smiled at the creative use of magic.

  The lights of the Bay Area glittered through floor-to-ceiling windows. I’d seen the view a million times before, but somehow, seeing it like this, from the Pacific to the East Bay hills without any traffic or crowds to share it with, enjoyed from a secluded, rose-scented bedroom, made me forget to breathe for a moment. “Enchanting view,” I said softly.

  “I’m so glad you’re here.” Holding out her arms, Vera stepped toward me, then stopped politely before making contact and put her hands over her heart. “My best friend back home got in a car accident on Monday. Two broken legs. I feel guilty for thinking of myself, given how much pain she’s in, but I never thought I’d be alone on my wedding night.”

  “She’s— You didn’t have— Isn’t there someone—” I stumbled. There was no polite way to ask if there was only one person in her entire life she was close to.

  “No, it’s just me,” she said.

  I suppressed my suspicion. Who was I to judge? I’d isolated myself for years. I’d only become friends with Birdie by unavoidable circumstance. “Is there anything I can do for you?” I asked.

  “What do you think of my dress?”

  I was forcing a smile on my face, but her dress confused me. It was as if she’d wrapped a bedsheet around her torso, pinned the corners at each shoulder, then cinched the waist with a gold satin sash.

  “It’s lovely.”

  “I know, I know, it’s not at all traditional, but it called to me.” She turned, shaking out the long skirts around her ankles. Her bare feet peeked out from beneath an asymmetrical hem. “I had to respect the magic that drew me to it. That’s what they say, isn’t it? The dress chooses the witch.”

  “I’ve heard that too,” I said. “That’s probably why I’m wearing this.” Smiling weakly, I patted my leather jacket.

  Her smile didn’t falter as she looked me over and nodded. “I wanted you to put on the final touch.” She held out the redwood pendant I’d given her when we met.

  “Wood for your wedding?” I asked, my voice rising. “No, please, you don’t have to do that.”

  “What do you mean? I don’t have to do anything. I want to.” She lifted the hair off her shoulders and turned her back. “It’s lovely old magic. It reminds me of… of stories my grandmother would tell me.”

  “You don’t have to wear it around your neck,” I said. “How about I double it around your ankle? Or you could stick it in your bra. Nobody will see it there, but you’ll still feel—”

  “I want people to see it,” she said sharply, lifting her hair higher. Then her tone softened. “Please. That’s all I want. Then you can go and enjoy the festivities.”

  Although I’d dreaded the idea of supporting her before the ceremony, now I felt guilty about my selfishness. I clasped the silk cord holding the pendant at the nape of her neck, careful not to touch her skin. “No, I’ll stay. I can cast an extra warming spell around you so you don’t freeze tonight.”

  “We won’t need to rely on magic to stay warm,” she said, turning to me, patting the pendant under her chin.

  Just as a mental image of them consummating their union struck me, so did a tickle of power. She’d allowed my spell to remain inside the redwood, and now, if I concentrated, I could feel her heart beating. Neither sensation was pleasant, and I flinched.

  “I beg your pardon.” She touched my arm and squeezed, doing something to the power link between us, easing my discomfort. “I meant that your father has had workmen prepare nonmagical heating for the rooftop.”

  I studied her hand, still on my arm, not recognizing the spell she’d used. Whatever it was had been faint. Her magic didn’t seem very strong, which given my father’s ego was probably better for their chance of happiness. “Well, that’s good,” I said, feeling awkward. Would we share years of uncomfortable dinners and holidays together, or would they drift out of my life, happy in each other’s company?

  “Let me show you so you don’t have to give it another thought.” With a gentle tug, she guided me through a pair of french doors out onto a balcony facing the Golden Gate Bridge. Below us the noises of the party spilled into a ground-floor terrace, but she led me up a staircase to a higher level. The house was in tiers, stacked on the hillside, and the uppermost portion, above her bedroom, was a wooden deck (redwood, which hummed to me) laid out in grand style for a wedding ceremony. There were urns, garlands, and bowls of flowers; strands of enchanted floating lights; a rose on each guest’s seat; a black velvet carpet for the couple; even a golden harp.

  As elaborate as it was, I felt like something was missing, something I really shouldn’t forget…

  “Tell me what you think of the Circle,” Vera said, drawing my attention to the centerpiece of the marriage rites. “I wanted you to see everything before all the guests arrive and spoil the effect.”

  Seven feet across, its perimeter was marked with white pillar candles set a foot apart that would burn until dawn. Inside was a pile of something botanical to form a soft bed; yellow and white, it was wide as the Circle and at least knee-high in the center. I cast out a quick probing spell to identify the plants, but the magic of the Circle blocked me. It was a powerful force, buzzing in the center of the deck. I wondered if Vera could feel how the redwood was enhancing the Circle’s magic.

  “What’s making up the bed?” I asked.

  “Milkweed floss and California buttercup,” she said. “Malcolm knows a witch who specializes in out-of-season wildflowers.”

  “Should be soft,” I said, impressed. Buttercup petals were tiny. It must’ve taken thousands. “It’s beautiful.”

  “Malcolm did ask for memory foam,” she replied, “but I told him we needed the old magic with us tonight.”

  I smirked. “Yeah, foam wouldn’t quite fill the same role. I’m surprised he didn’t insist on an air mattress at least.”

  “Perhaps he has hidden one under the petals.”

  I laughed.

  She flashed a quick smile, then sighed and put her hand over her stomach. “Butterflies. Let’s go back to my room, and you can rejoin the party.” She inhaled deeply. “It’s a perfect night.”

  As we left the rooftop, I felt the pull of the delicious magic behind me, inviting me to stay. In spite of my lack of enthusiasm for the marriage, I smiled, tempted to go back, only able to think Bright, optimistic thoughts about their union. How beautiful that they’d found each other after so many, many years alone, how perfect that we were all here now to witness destiny.

  Witness what?

  I stopped walking. That didn’t sound right. Digging all ten fingernails into the redwood railing, I focused my power on wiping away the matrimonial enchantment. It took a full minute, drawing sweat out of my armpits and dampening my brow.

  Demon’s balls, what a spell. I
f anyone should’ve been able to resist that particular conjuring, it was me, but I hadn’t felt a hint of it coming on. Good show. Malcolm must’ve paid an excellent performing witch for that level of creative deception. I’d met a witch recently during a trip to Mendocino whose magic was in entertainment and illusion. She could make some extra money doing weddings.

  After a cleansing breath, I went down the stairs and caught up to Vera in her bedroom, where she stood in front of a mirror, adjusting her hair. “You can get springwater punch downstairs in the Pacific dining room,” she said, pointing at the floor. “That’s the one on this corner. The one on the other side of the house is the Alcatraz room, where the banquet has been set up. I’ll walk with you to the stairs. This house is easy to get lost in.”

  Still fighting the residual romance spell from the rooftop, I might benefit from springwater if it wasn’t laced with more enchantments. “Sure you don’t need me for anything?”

  She studied me with an inscrutable smile on her face. “Just that you enjoy yourself,” she said. “Be happy.”

  I managed to nod, maybe even smile faintly in return, and we walked out of the bedroom together. My mental sharpness was returning, and I suddenly understood what had been missing on the rooftop.

  The fae. All the beautiful decorations—the magical lights, the powerful Circle, bouquets of enchanted flowers—even in a crowded city, should’ve attracted some fairies.

  But I’d seen none. Maybe I was wrong to expect them, though. Maybe the dozens, maybe hundreds of witches gathering together at the house could act as a deterring blaze of disagreeably human magic.

  But there hadn’t even been any wood sprites. The hillside gardens and rooftop patios of the well-tended residences in Pacific Heights would surely attract many of those, and they could fly away in an instant if they sensed danger.

  Perhaps they had.

  I cast my senses down the hallway, detecting an unpleasant but inactive threat nearby. Very nearby.

  “I’m sure you’ll have a nice time,” Vera said. “Your father has invited an old friend of yours. He said you would be lonely and bored without somebody you already knew to talk to.”

  Touching the beads on my bracelet for protection, I turned to her with my pulse picking up. The odds of my father worrying about my happiness, let alone taking advanced measures to ensure it, were extremely low. Anyone he invited would be to benefit himself. “What old friend?” I asked carefully.

  “I’m sorry, I don’t remember her name. I believe she arrived before you did. Malcolm mentioned he’d seen her.”

  She. Her. A female friend. Old. Did she mean chronologically old, like Helen, or a friend I’d had a long time? “Someone from school?” I asked.

  “Yes, that sounds right,” she said, smiling. “An old friend. From school. I’m sure you’ll find her downstairs and have a nice time catching up.”

  I nodded and continued walking down the hall onto the landing. A string quartet had begun playing in the foyer downstairs, and the sounds of Bach floated up the marble steps, filling the air with a light, playful melody.

  And then I saw the profile of a man standing at the railing overlooking the quartet, and my lungs lost the ability to breathe air at all.

  Kurt Bosko. The infamous Protectorate agent known for being almost as good as Raynor at killing demons, but without his grace and twice his fanaticism. Bosko was known for killing demons but also for capturing witch fugitives. In a controversial case we discussed in our last year at school, one witch had died en route to the Protectorate office before she’d been formally charged. Bosko had claimed self-defense, that she’d resisted with Shadow magic.

  In his early fifties (or appearing to be), Bosko was lean, muscular, and scarred, with short blond hair cut in a trendy style. The full beard was new, but his long, pointy nose, backlit by the celebratory pillar candles on display behind him at the top of the stairs, was unmistakable.

  I risked a step forward to see what he was looking at so intently. His probing spell was active, aimed directly at somebody downstairs. Perhaps the cellist was a demon.

  No such luck. The object of Bosko’s penetrating interest was the man standing in the foyer, greeting and screening the wedding guests.

  My father.

  Chapter Nine

  Stomach tensing, I retreated back into the hallway, never breaking my gaze from Bosko’s profile.

  “Your father isn’t the only one with an old acquaintance here,” Vera said in my ear, nodding at the infamous agent. “They went to school together,” she added.

  I touched my beads for calm. I’d had no idea my father knew Kurt Bosko socially. But why had he allowed a vicious hardliner under his roof, even if they were old classmates?

  Next to me, Vera seemed unconcerned, suggesting she didn’t know about the man’s reputation. It would be typical of my father to hide that little detail and to derive pleasure from the thrill of a secret, of danger, with so much at stake on his wedding day.

  I clenched my teeth. Malcolm always had to play the daredevil. It was his reason to live. Having an agent at his own wedding known for killing fugitive witches must make it seem all the more exciting. I hoped that if my father really feared arrest, he wouldn’t have let him in, and if Bosko was going to arrest him, he would’ve done so already.

  The panic eased, but it was wise to remain cautious. “Is there another way to get downstairs?”

  “Just wait a moment,” she said, squeezing my shoulder. A wave of harmless energy washed over me. “I’d like to get to know Malcolm’s old friends anyway.”

  While I waited in the sanctuary of the dim hallway, Vera strode out in her voluminous white gown and greeted Bosko at the top of the stairs with a cheerful hello.

  He turned, took her hand in his, and kissed her on both cheeks. The intimate contact would be rude in a professional setting, but at a witch wedding the bride had to put up with a few kisses, which were known for their good luck.

  “We meet again,” Bosko said, his voice booming over the marble. “I was just taking myself on a little tour. I’m sure you don’t mind.”

  “No need to take one alone. Let me show you…” Vera’s voice trailed off as she led him down another hallway.

  I waited a minute and then scurried onto the landing down the stairs to find the bar. Wine sounded good, more attractive than springwater right now. My nerves were shot. Seeing agents, even famous ones, shouldn’t upset me so much. The ceremony was still over an hour from now, and I couldn’t afford to burn myself out early. Watching my father go through wedding rites when I didn’t know if he’d ever done the same with my mother was going to be painful.

  When I had a glass of wine in my hand, I took a long sip, appreciating the expensive cabernet and pretending not to notice how the other guests stared at me. The red carpet for a British royal delegation would have had fewer people taking an obsessive interest in their appearance than were now mingling in my father’s home. Some of the fashions were trendy in the nonmagical world; most were ostentatious in a magical way, with pounds of silver, gold, platinum, and precious gems on display. The men next to me wore long, hanging chains over their tuxedos that made them glitter like department-store Christmas trees under the enchanted floating candles.

  I drained my glass, plucked a second glass off a tray, and went searching for the source of distant harp and piano music. The string quartet was taking a break. My father had always loved live music. He himself was a trained ballroom dancer, and I expected a luxurious dance floor had been set up somewhere in the house for the party.

  The harp and piano were in yet another room with a view, this one with a moss-green velvet sofa, overstuffed leather chairs, and walls of bookcases. A cozy library, the only space I’d seen yet in the house that I would actually like to spend time in.

  Bent over the piano keys was a familiar helmet-shaped head marked with a distinctive floppy bow. I stared, my stomach tightening.

  No, not Florence Werner. I watched in dis
may as the woman lifted her head and looked around the room with a big toothy smile. She’d had them magically enhanced when we were teenagers.

  Brightness, it really was Flor. I’d wondered how my father could’ve known any of my old friends; there was my answer. He hadn’t. He’d invited somebody he’d known by chance, a former classmate who’d invited me to her house for summer break nearly a decade ago. Flor had been an ambitious, self-centered, competitive witch without many friends, which is probably why we’d ended up spending so much time together. I was the new kid—I was always the new kid—and she liked my last name. Old family connections were still valued in the witch world, and her parents pretended to be ignorant of my father’s reputation while at the same time trying to get to more prestigious connections for their daughter through me.

  The music stopped. Flor jumped up and walked directly to me, her white teeth gleaming. “Alma! Congratulations and all that. Or should I offer my condolences?” She held out her arms for a hug.

  Surprised, I almost let it happen. But then, just in time, I brought my glass to my lips and nodded at her over the rim, turning slightly to prevent her invasion. “Florence.”

  “Is something wrong?” She held up her hands, showing naked wrists, wriggling bare fingers. “I couldn’t hex a fly. Metal’s at home. My granny said that’s proper for weddings. Of course, nobody else seems to know that. I’ve seen more metal in the past hour than I have all year.”

  I remembered Flor’s family being obsessed with what was proper. It had made for uncomfortable dinner conversations, given the gossip about Malcolm Bellrose stealing a pair of ruby earrings from a powerful Emerald’s wife that summer.

  “It’s been a long time,” I said, staring at her. The last time we’d spoken, I’d told her about my letter from the Protectorate that had invited me to join the organization for training after my seventeenth birthday. She’d ghosted me after that.

  Later I’d learned from one of our teachers that Flor hadn’t received a letter—which was more typical at our age, since most had to apply a year or two before breaking in—and was disgusted with me for getting something she hadn’t thought I deserved. Also, the Protectorate had arrested my father around that time, if I recalled. He was released without charges, but I’d assumed our family disgrace was at last too costly for the Werners.