Small town big magic a w.., p.32
Small Town, Big Magic--A Witchy Rom-Com, page 32
“Guys,” Zander says impatiently. “More important. What the hell do we do now?”
I wish I knew.
But then everything disappears in a flash. Cage, Skipweasel, even the black ooze left behind. I panic at first, but then Jacob takes my arm and points to the top of Frost House.
Nicholas Frost stands on the widow’s walk. His cloak whips in the wind while his huge raven perches on his shoulder. The raven lets out a long cry.
Inside.
The command is in my head. As I look around, I realize it’s in everyone’s head. We exchange glances, but what else is there to do?
We close ranks, carefully coming together to move as a group. And then we go inside Nicholas’s mansion—the glamour long gone.
He’s standing in his grand library like he’s waiting to hold court. No cloak this time. He’s dressed like a normal man, jeans and a shirt, but nothing hides the power of the immortal before us.
Georgie is staring at the books on the walls with wide eyes, but the rest of us are focused on the table at the center of the room. There sits the cage with the weasel within. The little creature has given up its screeching and lies there, curled up like any wild animal that has tired itself out.
I meet Frost’s wintry gaze, my pulse a small riot. But I know something about him now. He’s not ambivalent. Maybe he doesn’t want to leap into participating, but he isn’t uninterested.
I’ll get him yet. “Did we stop the flood by defeating Skip’s dark magic?”
He says nothing, but waves his arm. The walls around us disappear for a moment and the confluence is visible. It’s like looking through space and time at once, or maybe the whole universe. Into the heart of the power.
That’s what these rivers are. That’s why we hide them.
Yet threaded in all that golden light of true, good power, is a thick ribbon of black. It slowly gets bigger and thicker. With every second. With every breath.
I look at Jacob, needing to see my horror reflected in his expression. But there’s only a grimness to the set of his mouth.
Then it hits me. Jacob sees this all the time. As a Healer, it isn’t just witchkind that needs his special brand of powers. It’s the earth, the air, our rivers. He can see the imbalance, the dark magic threaded through. He can see it.
And everyone else can deny it, pretend it doesn’t exist, because it’s easier than facing the problem. And how do you fight willful ignorance?
I know something with a striking clarity I didn’t fully have before.
If we don’t win, evil will.
Not just Skip-level weaselly evil. But a bigger, badder, scarier evil. Without a face. Without a name.
Whatever is doing this.
Whoever wants this blackness, this dark magic gone wild.
And I know something else. If this darkness wins, that will be it.
The end.
26
“In the end, you defeated nothing but Skip,” Frost tells us when the walls return. He looks at the weasel, and I swear there’s the tiniest hint of sympathy there. “Who was nothing much to begin with.”
“Has he...always been a weasel?” Georgie asks, finally tearing her gaze away from the massive library.
“No. And yes.” Nicholas lifts a shoulder. “There are things I can’t tell you. There are things I won’t. But I will give you a warning, so you know what you’re up against. The dark magic that made him will have many chances to win. You will only have one chance. One loss, and it’s all over. For all of you.”
But he only looks at me when he says it, and I have to fight off the cold chill that moves through me so I don’t shudder. Visibly.
“You have to help us,” I insist. I don’t understand how he could think otherwise.
“You don’t learn, do you?” he returns, his voice a dangerous purr. “You are not in charge of me, little witch.”
“I am a Confluence Warrior.”
There’s a moment—just one moment—when I think that might mean something to him. He doesn’t move. Doesn’t react, but there’s a flash of something.
I want to believe it’s hope.
“Confluence Warrior, powerful Healer, misguided Guardian, cursed half witch Summoner, fantastical Historian. It doesn’t matter to me who or what you are. I am Nicholas Frost.”
The arrogance is astounding. So much so I struggle to come up with words to defend myself and my friends that aren’t just an outraged squeak.
“Last time I checked, immortal didn’t mean better than anyone, just older.” Ellowyn smirks at him. “Nicholas Frost is no better than us. Hear that? It’s called a truth test. Throw my curse around all you like, but it’s handy when taking assholes down a peg.”
I want to give Ellowyn the biggest high five, but I can see the sparks of Nicholas’s temper, and we need him. Sometimes leadership requires more tact that showing an arrogant man his place.
However satisfying.
“I’ll keep the weasel here until such a time you have to face the consequences of your actions. A favor, we’ll call it.” He’s talking only to me. I’m almost positive.
I know I really don’t want to owe this witch any favors, but I don’t have a choice. That doesn’t mean I have to stop there. “The real favor would be joining us for the flood ritual.”
Nicholas smiles, and for a moment I think he’s actually going to agree.
And then I land with a thud in the living room of Wilde House. I look around in a panic, but then all my friends appear around me.
We have been dismissed. Against our will. Against my will.
I scowl. “I really, really don’t like him.” But he stepped in, didn’t he? Can we trust that it was benevolent? In his fashion?
There’s no good answer to that question, and now there’s very little to do except get on with our lives. I’m late to open the store, so likely Ellowyn is too. Zander might make his shift at the ferry, but it’ll be close.
“I know he has more answers,” Georgie says, frustration laced through her soft tone as she and Jacob walk with me down Main toward the bookstore, because we all need a moment. “Or, at the very least, his library has more answers. There has to be something we’re missing, and I think it’s in those books.”
I make myself smile. “We’ll find it. Whatever it is.” We have to, don’t we?
She smiles back, but I’m not sure either of us fully believes it. She veers off toward Wilde House, while Jacob walks me into Confluence Books. He’s quiet, but it’s not that seething silence I’ve enjoyed before. This is more pensive.
As I’m feeling the same, I don’t really know what to say. Except one thing. “Thank you for letting me handle that.”
“I wish I could say it was easy.” He drops a kiss to my mouth. “Good thing you’re a hell of a Warrior, Emerson Wilde.”
“Thanks for patching me up too.”
“Anytime.”
I study his face. I know it so well. “Something’s bothering you.”
Jacob doesn’t deny it. He scrapes a hand over his beard. “I don’t know. I feel the same as Georgie, like I’m missing something. Right under my nose. I didn’t feel that until Skip’s stunt back there.”
I rethink my decision to keep that whole this-is-the-end thing to myself. If we’re all feeling this, maybe we need to talk about it. Isn’t that the lesson? Help is more. Us, not individuals. I open my mouth to suggest we all gather for a working lunch—
But the front door opens with a discordant jangle and Maeve Mather blusters in. “Emerson Wilde! You are opening up an hour late.”
“I know, Maeve.” And I love a schedule, but it dawns on me that Maeve’s obsession with mine, when she’s not exactly a big customer, is...not normal.
“I was so worried!”
Neither is the dramatic concern when I know she’s no fan.
I manage a bright smile. “How kind of you to care.”
“Care?” she sputters. “Well, of course! I hope you have a good reason for scaring years off my life.”
I feel like I should. Like I should spin a story and charm her right back out of my store, the way I would on any other day. But I’m tired and not in the mood.
“I don’t have a good excuse at all.” I pat Jacob’s chest and lean forward in a conspiratorial manner. “I was very distracted this morning.”
Maeve makes a distressed sound, and Jacob closes his eyes. I’m not sure if it’s embarrassment on his part or possibly thinking I shouldn’t have intimated such things to Maeve. Who may be a member of the scary Joywood, but is also a busybody of the first degree.
“The store is open now,” I say sweetly. “What can I interest you in today? Some self-help books?”
“The gardening section upstairs just got some new stock, didn’t it, Emerson?” Jacob interrupts. His tone is much, much nicer than mine.
And he’s in the right of it. To cut me off. To try to get Maeve to leave.
“I can’t imagine you have anything I’d be interested in,” Maeve says with a sniff, then turns with a flounce and walks outside.
Jacob raises an eyebrow at me. “You might want to take a day off if you’re going to talk to all your customers like that.”
“I can’t stand Maeve. I don’t care if she’s a Summoner.”
“No one can stand Maeve. But you’re amped. Frustrated.” He drags his fingertips down my temple. “And you have a headache. Taking it out on people you don’t like isn’t going to solve the problem, especially when they basically live in Carol’s pocket. Close your eyes for a moment.”
“You don’t need to heal me, Jacob. It’s nothing but little hurts.”
“Then it’ll be quick and easy to heal them up. Close your eyes, Emerson.”
I’d argue. Normally I would. Some of Ellowyn’s tea or even five minutes of sitting with Georgie’s crystals would likely clear it all up. But Jacob’s fingers are on my temples and my eyes drift shut.
He whispers his Healer words, goes in there and soothes the hurts. Each and every one. And yes, it’s a lot more pleasant to have Jacob’s fingers work their magic than to drink a mug of tea that tastes like moss with an attitude problem.
“There now, all better.” He kisses my forehead.
It’s all very sweet, but I find what I most want right now is to be alone in my store with my ancestors’ spirits around me.
And I don’t have to verbalize it for Jacob to understand.
“Wilde House for lunch?” he asks.
I nod. I tell him to get everyone there, then I give him another kiss and send him on his way.
I tidy the store. I let the normality of it settle me. I let the history of the stones I walk over seep into me. Confluence Warrior. That is what I am. I defeated dark magic today, and even if Skip was only the weaselly tip of the iceberg, it was a step in the right direction.
I help two young mothers carting unruly toddlers around find some books that interest their horde of children. I no longer have to ask myself Witch or not a witch? because I remember everything, and I can tell. These women are not witches. Just human women who want books and maybe five minutes of quiet.
Handling them like there’s no flood coming and no magic laws I might already have broken, like there’s a normal world out there somewhere, soothes me all the more, and I think maybe I’m finally back to feeling like myself when Carol walks in. I can see Maeve across the street outside, watching. Not like she’s spying. More like she sent Carol here and is waiting to see what happens.
Meaning Jacob was right to warn me.
Still, I find myself hating both of them, hot and bright, like it’s new. From Carol’s mind wipe that defied all of witchkind’s protocols back when I was eighteen and foolish. To Maeve always meddling with my grandmother’s store. And, now that I have all the missing context, is no doubt the source of Carol’s disappointment commentary.
Women should lift up other women, but these two have spent years trying to tear the Wilde women down.
Carol smiles at me, and I make my lips curve, but I know there’s no warmth behind it.
I beat her son, didn’t I? Why can’t I beat her too? And why wait for the full moon if she’s here right now? She didn’t wait for the right moment to wipe my mind. She just did it. I stand a little straighter.
It isn’t time yet, sweet pea. Not yet. It’s my grandmother’s voice. There in my head. She’s never spoken like this to me before. Not so directly. It’s not supposed to be possible. I stand very still, desperate to keep her talking. Hide what you are. Bide your time.
Because it’s not clear whether Carol knows I broke through her mind-wipe spell. Maybe she’s come to see for herself. Grandma is telling me—very distinctly—not to let her see how I’ve changed.
I almost panic, but then I think...I just need to be the old me. The me from a few weeks ago, really. And I know what it feels like to be mind wiped from both sides now. Half in and half out. I know what she’s looking for, and with my own magic I can make it seem like my mind is fogged over by her old spell. I wrap a good rendition of that blockade around me, just in case she’s inclined to take a peek.
Then again, maybe she’s here about Skip.
My mind spins around and around, worrying through various strategies, and I almost feel like there’s oily residue on my skin.
I can’t hide the fact Skip has disappeared. And it’s probably best not to pretend I haven’t seen him. Best to be as honest as I can be and stay as close to the truth as I can from a supposedly human perspective—without inviting some of that harsh Joywood justice.
All of this whirls through me in the space of a smile.
“It’s weird that you came in today, actually,” I say.
Her hair seems to frizz extra at that, like a dog’s hackles rising. “Oh?”
“I need to tell you something. Something very upsetting.”
Her eyebrows lift. Her gaze is sharp.
I blow out a breath, and I’m not faking the leftover shiver of reaction. “Your son attacked me, Carol. In broad daylight.”
She blinks. Once. “Excuse me?”
“He, well, I really don’t want to relive the specifics, but it was bad,” I say. I wrap my arms around my middle. “I defended myself as best I could. But...” What would I have done back when I didn’t know magic existed? When my mind would have convinced me there was nothing supernatural going on? “It was... It was clearly... I’m going to have to file a police report.”
“A police report,” Carol echoes.
“I’m sorry,” I whisper. “I wish I could make a different choice out of respect to you, but it isn’t safe. For any woman in St. Cyprian. You warned me about him yourself, but I never thought he’d get physical.” I shake myself off, briskly, and something in me aches. Because I know that if this had happened a few weeks ago and I survived it, Jacob would have healed me in the same way, I wouldn’t understand what had happened, and I would feel...like this. Determined to rise above what happened to me, yet battling back tears. And the shakes. “I have no choice, Carol. I hope you understand.”
She narrows her eyes and I get the sense she’s trying to read me. The human way. Then she reaches out and takes hold of my hand. “I am so sorry, Emerson,” she whispers.
And I want to believe her, but I can feel what she’s doing. Magically. She’s scanning me, like Jacob does. Not with the same Healer’s finesse, but it’s the same idea.
She pulls her hand back, still frowning. She’s still suspicious, which doesn’t surprise me.
But she isn’t ready to accuse me. That does surprise me.
“Emerson, of course I understand. What woman wouldn’t?” Carol furrows her brow, sorrowfully. “I’m horrified that my own son could behave like this.”
She reaches out and touches me again, putting her hand on my shoulder the way she did in the cemetery. I feel her magic pour into me. And more, this time I know what she’s doing. She’s weaving a spell.
“You don’t need to call the police,” she tells me, her voice melodic. Hypnotic. A beautiful, inevitable song that swells inside me. “It would cause unnecessary complications. Let me handle it.”
My mouth opens of its own accord. “I’ll just let you handle it, Carol.”
“I’m his mother after all. Who could handle him better?”
“You know him best,” I agree at once.
Inside, it’s like I’m wrapped up tight, in a ball, covering myself while her spell moves through me. It’s a lyrical, glimmering attack, encouraging me to do as she wishes. And to feel easy about it while I do.
But at heart it’s no different from what Skip did.
He wanted to hurt me. She’s simply controlling me.
And this time I can’t fight. I have to let her do as she likes. I have to smile as a new memory blooms in my mind, of Skip being a little bit testy. A little bit contentious in a chance meeting on the street. Maybe I refused him a second date?
Because of course it’s my fault.
If I fight, I’ll give myself away. I’ll give everything away. It’s a lie-back-and-think-of-Salem kind of a thing and there’s nothing to do but endure it. Curl myself up tight and wait her out.
I hide the real me deep, safe behind my little blockade, and surrender the rest.
“You’ll let it go, won’t you, Emerson?” Carol asks in that soft, singsong way. “Like you always have.”
Deep inside, I remember. Odd little conversations with Carol over the years. When Skip lit my semiformal dress on fire. When Skip turned my junior-year exam paper into a pit of snakes. When Skip did any number of psychotic things over the years.
Almost, I think now, like they were tests to see what I’d do with the power no one believed I had.
And Carol would roll up each time in the aftermath. Boys will be boys, she would say. Don’t you think, Emerson? Boys have these strange urges. Boys can’t help themselves.
