An Unlikely Witch (Witch Central Series: Book 2) Read online

  Nat walked through the door of her house and grinned at the excited shriek from upstairs.

  “Mama!” Kenna flew down the stairs at a speed that would have been a lot scarier if her six-year-old cousin wasn’t right behind her. Aervyn’s teleporting skills saved his little cousin’s noggin from damage on a daily basis.

  Nat caught the two of them in a big hug, holding them close an extra second or two. Sinking into the present. Cherishing what she already had.

  Kenna jiggled out of reach, babbling about a fire truck and a princess with a sword.

  Aervyn just shook his head ruefully. “We’re supposed to be putting out the dragon’s fire with the big hose, but she just keeps setting him on fire again.”

  Nat hid a grin, well aware that this particular princess lacked a little in the flexibility department. “Who’s making sure the whole house doesn’t go up in flames?”

  “Me.”

  He seemed pretty comfortable about that—Kenna must be on good behavior today. “Just the two of you here, huh?” Not likely.

  “Nuh, uh. Uncle Jamie’s working on something that’s broken in Realm.”

  Occupational hazard when you ran a gaming world that let witches play using real magic. “Okay. How about I make us some lunch, then?”

  “No green stuff.” The words came automatically as Aervyn loosed a small spell in Kenna’s direction. He grinned as the little girl squealed and chased the neon-orange lights over her head. “And maybe Helga already made lunch—she’s been making lots of banging noises in the kitchen.”

  That was far more concerning than small children playing with fire. Nat got up from her knees, preparing to go investigate. Helga was Witch Central’s resident senior-citizen hellion, and what she lacked for in magic, she more than made up for in imagination.

  Aervyn’s hand squeezed hers. “I’m glad you feel better now.”

  Nat looked down, caught by the sincerity in his voice—and the wisdom. His mind magic was huge, and he picked up so much. “Caught that, did you?”

  “A little.” He cuddled his head into her belly. “I hope your boy comes soon. I know you miss him.”

  She didn’t murmur the platitudes, the cautions that their little boy who liked to build snowmen might never come at all. Instead, Nat wrapped her arms around the curly head of the wise six-year-old who so resembled that laughing toddler. And accepted the truth and comfort he offered.

  What’s up? Her husband’s voice slid into her head, gentle and slightly concerned.

  She looked up as he made his way down the stairs. I’m fine. It was close to true, now.

  Jamie ruffled Aervyn’s hair and gave her one last careful look. “I hear Helga’s made worm slime and spider bones for lunch.”

  “No way.” Aervyn backed away, giggling. “Spiders don’t have bones.”

  “The worm slime’s for dessert,” said an amused voice from the hallway. Helga waved a spoon in the direction of the kitchen. “First you have to eat up all your grilled cheese sandwiches and pumpkin soup.”

  Nat hid a giggle of her own as Jamie and Aervyn exchanged perturbed glances. Pumpkin was a vegetable.

  Kenna had no such qualms. “Teese and toup!” She bestowed an enormous grin on her honorary grandma and took her hand. “Me eat.”

  Helga wiggled an eyebrow Aervyn’s direction. “I put bacon in the soup and cinnamon and some more secret stuff I bet you can’t even guess.”

  The boy’s eyes lit with mischief. “Spider bones?”

  “Maaaaaybe.”

  Jamie wrapped an arm around Nat’s shoulders, grinning at the three carousing down the hallway ahead of them. “I guess this means I have to eat it, huh?”

  Nat was pretty sure it wouldn’t kill him—Helga had been bribing Aaron for recipes lately. “If you don’t, no worm slime for you.” There was leftover green Jello in the fridge that probably wouldn’t mind being repurposed.

  The shortest members of their current household had disappeared from view. Jamie dropped a kiss on the top of her head. Sure you’re okay?

  Yeah. She kept her answer in her head, trusting his mind magic to hear the words. And shared her pain, even though she knew it would create some of his own. I saw a little boy with curls in our park today.

  Sorrow came down his mind channels, along with comfort. They leaned into it together, lending strength and solace both.

  In three-and-a-half years, they’d had a lot of practice.

  And then Nat slid her fingers into his and entered the cheerful kitchen chaos. She’d made a promise to herself on the morning of her sixteenth birthday as she’d come downstairs to a table full of carefully wrapped presents, empty chairs, and a note.

  Grief didn’t get to steal any more of her life.

  -o0o-

  She pulled herself together for him. Even as he walked into his kitchen and the smell of Helga’s most excellent grilled cheese sandwiches, Jamie knew that.

  Nat would pull in her sadness, her aching yearning for the small boy they both wanted so terribly much, so he didn’t have to feel it in duplicate.

  A gesture he both loved and hated every time it happened.

  She was moving gracefully around the kitchen now, reaching for cups, pouring milk, dropping a kiss on Kenna’s messy curls. Comfortable in the chaos.

  Reveling in it.

  She found her balance so much faster than he did.

  And he worried that underneath it all, she still walked in pain. Alone.

  Nat had dragged herself out of the lonely muck of her growing up and prepared to be the center of a large and boisterous family. He’d known that moments after they’d met, even if she hadn’t understood it yet. And then she’d married into a clan where big families were legion and began to build one of her own.

  He was terribly afraid that somewhere underneath the grace and gentle smiles in his kitchen walked a woman who felt like a failure. Like she was somehow letting down him and Kenna and a small boy with laughing eyes and all the children who were meant to come after him.

  He had no idea what to do about it. Words didn’t fix stuff like this, especially not with his yogini wife. But yoga wasn’t fixing it either, or any of the other things Nat was so very good at using to find her balance.

  She hurt. And too often, she hurt alone. It was killing him.

  Helga squeezed his arm and laid a plate in his hands, eyes sharp. “Everything okay?”

  Jamie was suddenly apprehensive, in his kitchen full of the redolent smells of melted cheddar, that the answer had tipped a lot more sharply toward “no.”

  -o0o-

  Ah, young girls giggling. There was no better magic in the universe.

  Moira rocked gently and watched Lizzie and Ginia try one more time to finish spelling their little jars of potion. Lizzie, always fast but not always accurate, finished first. And stared at her jar, eyes wide.

  Sophie shook her head fractionally from the other side of the fireplace.

  And then the jar burped, and most of the parlor audience joined their healer trainees in a puddle of laughter. Thirteen-year-old Kevin recovered soonest, his hiccupping snickers sending his glasses sliding down his noise. “I thought you said you were trying to make it fart.”

  Lizzie tried a scowl, which would have been more effective if she hadn’t still been giggling. “It’s harder than it looks. You have earth magic—you try.”

  Ginia grinned at their youngest healer. “I bet Sean will like burping potions too. You should keep that one.”

  Lizzie had the village’s biggest troublemaker for her holiday gifting—and she’d come up with an idea that was a perfect storm of brilliance and insanity. She was making the newly minted teenager a whole apothecary worth of magical potion gags and pranks. Which Sean would adore and the rest of the village would live to seriously regret.

  And yet, here they sat, with an old Irish granny walking eight-year-old hands through the tricky bits of a farting-jar spell.

  Moira grinned. She wasn’t the only one h
elping. Marcus had contributed a tricky and very loud frog croak. Sophie had come up with a lovely bit of magic that turned the wearer’s cheeks green and scaly, a prank that hadn’t been seen in these parts for a good twenty years—and if Moira remembered correctly, it hadn’t been young Sophie they’d blamed it on at the time.

  At least with Sean, they’d be very sure who the culprit was.

  “Having fun yet?” Sophie got up to rescue a half-tipped jar, eyes bright with simple seasonal pleasure.

  “Aye.” And she was. Pranks were the Irish national pastime. “Wee Sean will be entirely delighted.” And no longer wee—he’d taken advantage of a quiet fall to sprout up past almost everyone in the village. His brain, however, hadn’t quite caught up with his newly larger feet.

  And Moira was in no hurry to push him. Sean would be a fine grown-up one day—and the more he got out of his system now, the less hard he’d have to work to put on the mantle of maturity when his time came.

  She nodded, content. He would have a wonderful Solstice, and he wasn’t the only one. “How is your gift for Aaron coming along?” The innkeeper was a happy man with few demands—an interesting challenge, and one that Sophie had considered carefully for several days.

  And then, in Moira’s humble opinion, walloped well out over the fence.

  Sophie smiled, her eyes caught in a gentle, dreamy place. “I got three more replies today. One woman said his broccoli soup reminded her of when she and her husband were first married. They were really poor students, and he insisted that his favorite food was broccoli right up until the day their first real paycheck came in.”

  It was so easy to imagine a young couple just getting started. “They stopped eating quite so much of it, did they?”

  “Apparently.” A grin of quiet delight. “Aaron’s soup was the first time they’d had broccoli since. She said it reminded them of how much love flowed back in those early days. Now they have it every Friday for dinner.”

  A whole scrapbook of such rememberings. It would warm the soul of a man who was so very good at warming others.

  “It’s amazing to read them, and to realize how deeply he touches lives with the food he puts on the table and the flowers he leaves by the bedside.” Sophie paused, looking at the jar in her hands. “I didn’t have any idea. I thought I did, but I really didn’t.”

  It was so easy as a healer to believe your life’s work mattered. Others weren’t nearly so fortunate. “He’ll know how much he matters on this earth. It’s a truly lovely thing you do for him.”

  The younger healer smiled, eyes dancing in the firelight. “I didn’t do it alone. Thank you.”

  It had truly been a pleasure. Moira had been tasked with temporarily borrowing the registration book for the inn and with dropping Sophie’s elegant, handwritten request letters in the mail. “Anyone could have done as much.”

  Sophie chuckled as the jar in her hand farted. “Maybe. But so far, I think you’ve managed to keep it a secret.” She glanced over. “Are you any further along on a gift for Ginia?”

  No. And it was a weight on her shoulders, although not a heavy one. “The flowers are murmuring of old things.” Which wasn’t much of a clue when you were a musty old witch.

  “You’ll think of something. You always do.”

  More than one jar in the room suddenly emitted rude noises. Ginia high-fived Lizzie, eyes bright. Moira listened to the sounds of laughter, treasuring them—and wondered exactly what of the old she was meant to give to that brightness.

  -o0o-

  Lauren carved a glob of frozen caramel out of her pint of ice cream and considered her bay window. Somehow, the objects there had reorganized themselves over the last few months. They looked now as if they were holding court for the orb, currently sound asleep on its glittery velvet pillow.

  It was odd to think of a paperweight sleeping. And this afternoon, it didn’t slumber alone.

  Fuzzball yawned and stretched in his pool of sun—and caused one of Devin’s eyes to open. “You’re awfully wiggly for a sleepy cat there, dude.” His fingers scratched a fluffy gray head as he looked over at his wife. “Sorry, didn’t hear you come home. I must have dozed off.”

  She smiled, enjoying his drowsy good humor. “That’s what lazy Saturday afternoons are for.” The two of them had been sound asleep when she’d gotten back from her last open house of the year.

  “Hmmm.” His eyes were waking up now. “So how come you’re sitting over there eating ice cream instead of napping over here with me?”

  Good question. “I’m thinking.” Strategizing, really. “I need to have a chat with the orb.”

  Devin didn’t move a muscle, but his whole being was suddenly on alert. “Why?”

  She sighed, so not wanting to disturb his lazy, cozy peace. “I’m not sure staying quiet is the best course of action. I need to see if it will give me more details.” Some sort of clue that might help her with the timing of dropping a bomb onto her best friend’s life.

  “Yeah. That would be awfully damn useful.” Dev’s voice was casual—only his mind hinted at menace.

  He read her far too well. “I’m worried about Nat.” That was a weak word for the turmoil in her insides.

  “It’s picking on those you love best.” He scowled in the direction of the paperweight.

  Still her knight in shining armor, even if he snored when he napped. Lauren set her ice cream aside. Comfort could wait—she was ready to do this.

  He hadn’t moved, and yet she felt him wrap around her. “I’ll be right here when you’re done.”

  He would be. Comfort came in a lot of forms.

  -o0o-

  I need your help.

  The orb slid into alertness, studying the feelings gathering outside its surface. Stormy ones, messy. Inexorably human, and backed by the power of the one who listened. Dangerous ground. It waited, hoping for something simple. Within its power to deliver.

  The feelings cleared and the image of the child with the snowman emerged, bright and clear. She had much skill. I need to know if he comes soon.

  She asked for the impossible. It took care forming the words. Cannot say.

  Surfaces pounded. Fury, fear, so much feeling. That’s not good enough.

  The orb collected itself, shaky. So much power—even when she was trying to be gentle. It shook foundations that weren’t supposed to shake. It was not her fault. She didn’t understand.

  The forces did not speak in human terms. And they often didn’t let a tool of magic see or speak at all. It thought, carefully. New question. Something it wasn’t so entirely forbidden to answer. Or so uninformed as to what the answer might be. On the subject of the child, the curtains were tightly drawn.

  A mind reached into its center again. Okay. Will the little boy—the one playing in the snow—will he exist? Ever?

  That it knew. Yes. And no. And both. The orb settled on a weak human word. Perhaps.

  Frustration hammered its surfaces again. Is there something we need to do for him to live? To be?

  Yes. And no. The orb flared, trying to make her see. The universe was not simple, and the forces only passed on the parts they thought important. It is a journey that must begin. That was all it knew. The words sounded imperious, even to destiny’s mouthpiece.

  The forces pressed in. Demanding. Implacable. Shuddering, the orb passed on the last of what it understood. The journey matters. The child is not important.

  Searing light exploded in its foundations. The child is all that matters.

  The orb felt its essence melting. Pushed out two desperate words. Stop. Hurts.

  The searing vanished, replaced by shock. What?

  Light. Hurts. Voice. Hurts. Too hard. No room. Human words were so infernally inadequate. The orb pushed out a picture of itself, broken. Hurts.

  I could do that? Guilt now, and no small helping of awe. I’m sorry. I didn’t know.

  The orb hadn’t known either. None who had come before had held this power.

 
Something solid and warm coated its surface. Steadied it. Does that help?

  It felt like a cloak of fine velvet. Soft, warm, luxurious. Yes.

  Surprise. You barrier just like a human mind.

  The orb felt oddly flattered.

  A long pause. You don’t know, do you. If the child will be or not be.

  Yes. And no. And this time, the orb was smart enough not to give that answer. Don’t. Know. And one final word. In gratitude for the cloak of velvet. Sorry.

  Something warm, sneaking under the velvet. Thank you for trying.

  The orb sat, exhausted and astonished. In a thousand years and more—it had never been thanked for failure.

  Chapter 3

  Oh, dear.

  Moira looked up into the eyes of her freshly landed visitor and felt her breath catch. Such sadness.

  Lauren gestured at the table. “I’m sorry—I’m disturbing your work.”

  “No, my dear.” Moira stood from her careful filling of tiny jars of lemon balm. “I’m just working on some wee gifts for the Solstice. It’s no bother for them to sit a while.” They were, however, covering every inch of her kitchen table. And fresh and lemony wasn’t the right sensory wrapping for sorrow. She reached for a tin on the counter. “Come into the parlor with me and we’ll sit by the fire and have some of Aaron’s cookies.” They were maple pecan and glorious, and perhaps would at least take the edge off her visitor’s sorrow.

  Lauren reached out and cradled the tin and the old Irish hands that held it. “I came without even thinking, seeking the comfort you always seem to have ready.”

  Lovely words, even if the voice that said them wavered. “If I’ve any magic left, it’s that of hearth and home. And you, daughter of my heart, will always be welcome.”

  A dark head curled down, finding a soft shoulder.

  Moira reached her hand to a cheek cold from the frosts of winter. “You walked a bit before you came, then.”

  “I did.” Lauren’s breath lurched out. “Berkeley’s my turf now. My streets. They help me think.”

  Just as an old witch had her gardens. Moira led the two of them into her cozy parlor, fire quietly burning in the hearth and the light smell of cinnamon dancing in the air. She’d felt festive this morning.