Page 4 of Any Witch Wolf (The Smokethorn Paranormals #2)

M isgivings about Ronan and our dinner plagued me all day long.

They followed me into my mom’s empty cottage where I dusted the few remaining items and ensured that the Lennox family grimoire was secure—all tasks Ida used to do but I’d recently decided to start doing myself.

They followed me into my trailer and kept me company in the shower and at my small vanity as I got ready for dinner. I blasted my favorite station to drown out the doubts running through my brain, but even David Bowie singing about young Americans couldn’t push them out.

Doubt joined misgivings and snowballed into anxiety, so that by the time I walked into the Desert Rose Café to drop off the charms Cecil had powered up, I was a twisted bundle of nerves.

“Everything okay?” Kiv Melliza was the only one behind the counter. Gela, their cousin and co-owner of the popular Smokethorn coffee place, was nowhere to be seen.

“Fine.” I gave them a weak smile. “I brought you some charms to replace the others. Sorry for the trouble. Bad batch of herbs.”

How many times would I be able to use that excuse?

“No worries.” The green-haired faery smiled back. “Magic is weird like that sometimes. Most of them were fine. Besides, half our buyers are humans who don’t think they’re supposed to do anything other than be beautiful.”

“That’s a relief.”

Kiv took the package and tucked it beneath the counter. “Gela’s gone today, so I’ll have to put them out later.”

I looked around the small cafe. A few customers sat on the outdoor patio, but otherwise business was light. “Are you here all by yourself?”

“Just for now. Got a couple of people coming in at five to help with the date-night crowd. Speaking of,” Kiv made an encompassing gesture with their hands, “you look like a goth pin-up girl. Love the flower.”

“Thanks.” I’d opted for an all-black look—blousy fitted top, cigarette pants, patent leather, Christian Louboutin pumps—except for my red camellia and lipstick. Oh, and the soles of the Louboutins. No, it wasn’t a date, but there was a tiny part of me that wanted Ronan to wish it was.

Okay, a large part of me.

“Well, you look great. Hope they, he, or she are worth the effort.”

“Me, too.” I reached into my shoulder bag and set a bundle of freshly picked lavender on the counter. “Here’s a sample of the new strain Cecil’s working on. He thought you might want to give it a try in your baking.”

They lifted the bundle to their nose and sniffed. “This is nice. Thank him for me.”

“I will when I see him. He’s been hiding from me all day. And after I gave him that Curio rowleyanus cutting, too.”

Kiv lowered the lavender to the counter and leaned close. “You gave him a string-of-pearls plant?”

“I’m impressed you recognized the botanical name.”

“We have them in Faery.” Kiv tilted their head to the side, a lock of shamrock green hair falling into their brown-black eyes. “Garden gnomes sleep in these huge bowls filled with them. They have a calming, comforting effect.”

“It was just a little gift. Cecil collects plants that hurt people—it’s one of his less dangerous hobbies.”

“It doesn’t hurt him. As you’re probably aware, gnomes have a natural immunity to most toxic plants. That’s why they’re so popular in unseelie poison gardens.” They gave me a curious look. “It’s a very big deal to present a gnome with a string-of-pearls plant. You didn’t know that?”

“No,” I said, a creeping fear scuttling up my spine. “Kiv, what did I do?”

“Nothing bad.” Their mouth widened in an otherworldly sort of smile. “You don’t have to look so scared. Garden faery like Cecil communicate through plants, similar to you earth witches, except, well, the message is literal with them.”

“Please stop dancing around it and tell me how I screwed up.”

Kiv winced. “It’s all in how his family views things, but best-case scenario, you gave him a gift of sibling love.”

Because I doubted it would be that easy, I asked, “And worst case?”

“You asked him to marry you.”

“Kiv, I’m going to be honest. I really didn’t need to hear that tonight.”

They chuckled. “Just tell him what you meant. I’m sure it’ll be fine.”

I made two additional deliveries, these quicker than the first, and headed to Wicked for my second-to-last delivery before my dinner with Ronan.

The doorbell chimed when I walked through the glass front door of Bronwyn’s shop. The business was twofold—a boutique with a “witchy” vibe for human shoppers and an importer of rare craft supplies for other magicals.

Wicked was the place one went to find a strand of hair from a virgin mage for a protection spell, or a barb from the feather of a Chinese golden pheasant. All freely given , of course. As a coven member, Bronwyn was restricted from working the dark magic side of the spectrum and compelled to report anyone who did.

I might despise the La Paloma coven for personal reasons, but I respected their commitment to their magic.

I strolled in as the Pallás pack second alpha Mason Hartman ducked out through the storeroom doorway. Probably on pack-coven business. None of my business, even if Bronwyn did appear flustered as I rounded a display of love charms and approached the counter.

“Hi, Betty.” Bronwyn’s voice was like a cartoon princess mid-song, sweet and high and trilling. That made sense. The witch looked like the real-life version of Princess Tiana from the Princess and The Frog .

“Hey, Bronwyn. I have those cha —necklaces I owe you,” I said, quickly correcting myself when a woman stepped out from between two aisles.

She was elderly, eighty or older, and wore a hooded black-velvet robe. The cut of it reminded me of some druids I knew, though her fabric choice was unconventional. At first glance, I’d thought she was a really cool nun.

“It’s all right. Mavis is one of us.” Bronwyn came out from behind the counter and handed the woman a wrapped bundle. “I’ll text you when the rest comes in.”

The woman nodded, bowed her head to Bronwyn then to me, and shuffled down the herbal bath products aisle. Seconds later, the chimes rang out, indicating she’d exited the shop.

I raised my brows. “Druid?”

“Couldn’t say.” She returned to her spot behind the counter. “I’m a simple purveyor of light magic goods. I don’t ask questions beyond that.”

Right. There was nothing simple about Bronwyn. She was a member of the La Paloma coven, after all. Despite her association with those bastard witches, I liked the woman. There was something genuine about her that kept me from lumping her in with the others.

“You look nice. Date tonight?”

“Thanks. Just a casual dinner,” I said. “Here are the replacement charms. Thank you for allowing me to recharge them.”

“Of course. I know how sensitive magic can be sometimes.” She unwrapped the charms and laid them on the display case. Her long, elegant fingers moved over each one, testing their magic.

She pushed two back to me. “These aren’t right. The rest are perfect, though.”

I studied the charms she’d rejected and stifled a curse. They were the only two of the batch that I’d crafted. Cecil had done the rest.

I shoved the defective charms into a side pocket of my bag. “Sorry about that.”

“No problem,” she said, her voice soft and airy. She leaned across the counter on her elbows. “So, I hear you’ve connected with the soil under the Siete Saguaros.”

“ What ? Who’d you hear that from?”

“It’s all over town, I’m afraid.” She didn’t look afraid. She looked happy—downright eager. “It’s good news, though, right? You won’t have to sell your mobile home park?”

I dodged the question. Not because I didn’t want to answer her, but because I didn’t have an answer for her. “The saguaros aren’t back, which means I’ll need you to reorder my usual supplies.”

Her forehead creased, smiled dipped. “But, Betty, you’re an earth witch. If you’re resonating with your element, the protection spell on the park should last longer.”

She was right, but sadly, she was also wrong. “It should, but I just renewed the spell in February, and I’m going to need to renew it again in June or July.”

Bronwyn’s expression darkened. “Is it the quality of the ingredients? If so, I’ll give those vendors a piece of my mind. If they think they can cheat?—”

“No. The quality is fine. Don’t burn any bridges with your vendors.”

“But if it’s not that, what is it?”

Well, that was the question, wasn’t it?

“It’s complicated,” I said. “So, how did the coven mother take my kicking her off my property?”

Bronwyn gave me a gently chiding look. “She wasn’t pleased, as I’m sure you’re aware.”

A nasty little part of me cackled with joy. Then the rest of nasty little me joined in. “If I know Margaux, she was freaking livid .” I laughed. “Good.”

“Do you really believe she’s responsible for your mother’s death?” Bronwyn’s expression intensified. “Do you believe she could have saved her?”

Did I? My mom had died casting a spell so powerful, she’d waited until she knew everyone in the park would be gone. She’d called me to say goodbye—not in so many words, but with the advantage of hindsight, I knew that was what she’d been doing.

“No and yes. I don’t believe Margaux’s responsible for Mom taking on a spell she believed was too powerful for her to handle. But I do believe she could’ve helped me save her. If all she’d done was go over and distract Mom, given me time to get home?—”

“Then all three of you might’ve died.”

“Or we might’ve been able to help her handle the spell.” I adjusted the strap of my shoulder bag. “A strong spell spread across several witches might leave everyone drained, but it’s unusual for it to kill them all. That’s why witches join covens, right?”

Bronwyn nodded. “Yes, but?—”

“Here’s the thing. Margaux didn’t kill Mom, but she also didn’t lift a finger to help. Not even after I called and begged her. I’ll never forgive her for not trying.”

“I can understand that,” she said, surprising me.

“May I ask you a question?”

“Sure.”

I glanced at the doorway leading into the back room. “Is Mason Hartman still in there?”

Yeah, it was a cheap trick. But I’d wanted to get a true read on her feelings about Mason and asking her when she was ready for it wouldn’t have given me that.

Her cheeks went dark red, she blinked several times and cleared her throat. “No. He left through the back door.”

“What was he doing here?” I asked.

Bronwyn did the throat-clearing thing again, tossed back her shoulders, and lifted her chin. Her cheeks were still bright red, but she wore the look well. “We had business. And you know I don’t discuss customer business with other customers.”

“Does that include me? You don’t discuss me with Mason?”

“No.”

“Did he ask you to?”

She shook her head, but I had the idea that she was trying to deny the question rather than answer it. “As I said, I don’t discuss customer business with anyone.”

“ Was he a customer, though? Did he buy anything? Because from where I was standing, it looked like he left empty handed.”

“He is a customer, as are you.” She bit her lip to keep from smiling. It didn’t work and just made her look cuter than usual.

“Holy hellebore, he asked you out, didn’t he?”

“Betty…”

“Did you say yes? I mean, he scares the bejeezus out of me, but there’s no denying the man is good-looking.”

She flipped open a spiral book and picked up a pen. “The first part of your next order should arrive in two weeks. The saguaro spines might take longer, but I’ll do my best.”

“Aww, c’mon. You don’t have to tell me if you said yes, but at least admit the guy is smokin’ hot.”

“Hot as a swimming pool in Hades—and every bit as dangerous.” She set the pen aside and looked directly into my eyes. Her usual aggressively benevolent expression was gone, and in its place was something a lot more real. “Be careful around him, Betty. Around all the Pallás wolves. You aren’t safe with any of them.”

Her words played in the back of my mind as I walked to my car. That certain members of the pack hated me wasn’t news, per se, but the urgency she’d projected was unsettling—especially coming from someone in Floyd’s bought-and-paid-for coven.

I did an all-over-body-shake to chase away the apprehensive feeling.

The last stop on my charm-exchange journey was in a radically un-gentrified section of downtown La Paloma, equidistant from Wicked and Ronan’s Bar, sandwiched between a one-person nail salon and a no-booze pool hall. A glance at my cell told me I had plenty of time, so I parked on the street, snagged the last parcel of charms, and went inside.

Beau’s Oddities was the shop version of a mullet—business in front, party in the back. It was half head shop, half bookstore, and fully paranormal-owned. At least, I was pretty sure he was paranormal. Beau didn’t advertise his ability. It was obvious that he had power, I just wasn’t certain what kind.

I knew him because of his expertise in tracking down rare paranormal books and artifacts. Plus, he’d been a friend of my mom’s. How good of a friend, I didn’t actually want to know.

“Hey, Betty, what’s shaking today?” Beau stood up behind the counter and set the controller to a nineties Nintendo video game system to one side of an old television set.

“Just dropping off some charms. Did you buy a retro console?” I asked, gesturing to the TV.

“Nah, this was mine in college. Still in pretty good shape. I break it out once in a while when business slows down.” He patted the fake-wood veneer on the boxy TV.

I’d put Beau’s age anywhere from forty-five to sixty, though if he was in college back in the nineties, he’d probably crested the fifty-year mark. He had short brown hair, a scruffy beard threaded with gray, and piercing blue eyes. He resembled a stoned, grumpy Nicolas Cage.

“Tía Trini said you were able to bring magic out of the soil under your park. Should I take down the For Sale flyer? Now that you’ve got it working again, you don’t need to move, right?”

How the heck did Trini know that? It wasn’t as if I’d gone around telling all the tenants…

I did a mental head slap.

Ida .

“Things aren’t exactly sorted out, but yeah, for now, you can take the poster down,” I said.

He marched over to the hallway leading into the back room and ripped the flyer off the bulletin board. Due to a spell on it cast by my mom, the board was only visible to other paranormals. This made Beau’s store a great place to advertise a mobile home park that could only be run by a magical who resonated with the soil. It was a narrow niche.

“Thanks for the charms. I like to keep them in stock.” He wadded up the poster and tossed it into an aluminum trash can in the hall.

“You’re welcome. Let me know if you have any issues with them.”

“Issues?” His dark brows went low over his eyes. “What kind?”

“I’ve had trouble with a few, is all.” I looked around to ensure we were alone. “Could I pick your brain about something?”

“What’s left of my brain is yours.” He plopped down in the chair behind the counter and threaded his hands over his modest belly, hiding the Scorpions band logo on his T-shirt.

I went over several ways to broach the subject and landed on introducing a hypothetical. “Let’s say you’re a graveyard demon?—”

“Let’s fucking not.”

“Just for this conversation, Beau.”

He nodded, made a “continue” hand gesture.

“You purchased an artifact from another cemetery guardian, this one a ghoul.”

His eyes slid shut. He looked like he was in pain. “Your story keeps getting worse.”

“Said artifact isn’t harmful to humans or any paranormal except?—”

“Let me guess. The graveyard demon told you to keep it away from necromancers?”

I blinked. “ Yes .”

“Did Sexton ask you to bury it but not water it?”

“I never said anything about Sexton.”

“Sure. Customer privacy, I get it. Did the graveyard demon—who was definitely Bertrand Sexton, but I didn’t hear it from you—ask you to bury it and not water it?”

“Yes. I was also told to keep it out of bright light and leave it wrapped up.”

“Are you sure it’s not a Mogwai?”

“I made a Gremlins reference, too. It was unappreciated.”

“Bummer. It’s such a rad movie,” Beau said.

“Right? I watched it with my mom when I was a kid.”

His mouth curved in a bittersweet smile at the mention of my mom. “Mandrake.”

“Huh. I don’t remember that one. Personally, I liked Gizmo.”

“And I liked Stripe,” Beau said. “But I’m referring to the artifact, not Gremlins . Pretty sure what you’re dealing with is the bane of the god of spring, Xipe Totec—and every other spring, summer, or agricultural god out there. A Mictlan shrieker. Mandrake.”

“It’s pronounced Sheep-ah Toe-tek , not zippy toke. And he’s not only the god of spring, he’s also the god of flaying,” I said absently, my brain temporarily short-circuiting before kicking into overdrive. “Oh gods. Oh no. If it’s a mandrake, I’m in trouble. They’re reputed to be extremely dangerous.”

“They can be. In the literature I’ve read, they’re powerful, but not necessarily harmful. Anyway, you should be able to handle it since it’s less a creature or artifact than a?—”

“Plant.” This time, I physically slapped my forehead. “ That’s why he sent me. Not because he was out of reach and needed a delivery service, but because he needed a freaking gardener for his mandrake.”

Damn it. If I hadn’t been distracted by the failing charms, my fading magic, and dinner with Ronan tonight, I might’ve arrived at this conclusion a little sooner.

“Sexton’s always been a tricky bastard, but you’re too smart a witch not to have known that when you took the job.” Beau unwrapped the package of charms and threaded them on one finger. He took them across the shop to an ornate brass hook display he’d apparently reserved for them. “Don’t freak out. Mandrakes are usually kept in suspended consciousness for travel. It’s a form of dormancy that walks the line between life and death. Fascinating stuff.”

“Yeah, I saw Mom and Abuela Lulu put one under when I was six years old. It took a lot of earth magic,” I said, my stomach dropping. “A lot . Oh goddess. This is worse than I thought.”

He shrugged. “Just follow the instructions Sexton and Dominick gave you, and everything should be fine. Mandrakes, even Mictlan ones, are fine around most people, including necromancers, as I’m sure you know. They have magic, but they tend to use it to protect the person they bond with.”

I wasn’t going to ask how he knew about Dominick. Beau was a legend among artifact hunters. He was the southwestern nucleus of arcane information, and there was no way a ghoul lived within a hundred miles of him and he didn’t know about it.

“Yes, I know mandrakes are almost harmless. What I also know is whoever activates a mandrake of any kind forms a bond with it. An unbreakable bond. For life .”

Beau’s smile appeared slowly. “And the person most likely to awaken a mandrake caught in a state between the living and dead?”

I sighed. “A necromancer.”