Page 2 of Bewitched By the Djinn (The Bewitching Hour #8)

Chapter

Two

The scent of cayenne and black pepper envelops me as I slam the door shut and engage the lock.

It’s Monday, which means Mimi is making red beans and rice. It apparently also means I’m losing my damn mind.

I gaze through the peephole, breath sawing in and out.

The narrow alley between our building and the one next door is empty, aside from the uneven cobblestones, the opposing brick wall, a half-dead ficus in a chipped blue pot, and a sagging jack-o’-lantern Kevin brought home from school.

I would bet money I was followed the entire sprint home. Was it a ghost? I have never sensed one like it, if it was. The hex bags should keep them out.

I set my keys on the heavy wooden Bombe table in the entry and then tiptoe in the direction of the stairs, willing the sounds from the simmering stove to cover my steps and the slight rustle of the bag in my arms.

“Hey, Cassie,” Mimi calls as I pass the open doorway of the kitchen.

Dammit .

I shift my purchases behind my back. “Hey, Mimi.”

“What’s in the bag?” Her focus remains on the food, not even glancing at me.

Mimi is like a steel cable. She looks like she’d snap in half with a strong breeze, but she’s tough as old leather—weathered, unyielding, impossible to wear down.

“Nothing important.”

“Lie.” She points her wooden spoon in my direction like a tiny wizard casting a truth spell.

That spoon has seen some things. We’ve had it since Uncle Jeb died—possibly longer.

It’s cracked, stained, and looks like it should be in a museum next to the Rosetta stone, but Mimi swears it makes everything taste better and won’t listen to my concerns about things like bacteria.

She refuses to part with anything that still works, which includes the battered Dutch oven simmering on the stove, her ancient floral slippers, and the bright blue silk robe wrapped around her that she bought in 1967.

Normally I wouldn’t even attempt to lie to Mimi, but I’m not ready to share until I figure out more about what is going on. Not because I have an unhealthy obsession with it. Nope. Not at all.

She’ll just worry unnecessarily. I’m sure it’s no biggie anyway, a lamp that calls to me, strange malignant shadows, me losing my mind. Nothing to see here.

“I’ll show you later.”

“Another lie?” Her piercing gaze finally strikes me. “Now I’m curious. What do you have in there?”

Ugh. I should have thought of a good cover story before coming home so I wouldn’t set off the lie-dar. Something true-ish. It’s impossible to get away with anything when she’s around.

I stride toward the stairs. “We’ll talk later,” I yell over a shoulder. Retreat is always the best option in these situations.

“You can’t run from me.” Her words drift up the stairs.

“But I sure can try,” I murmur.

Thank the stars she doesn’t have super hearing.

I peek in on Jackie, napping in the armchair tucked into the corner of her room, a book splayed open on her lap.

The floor is its usual war zone of discarded clothes, fuzzy socks, and a rainbow of tangled hair ties.

Her desk is drowning in papers and empty tea mugs, beneath them an ancient, wheezing computer blinking like it’s holding on by sheer willpower.

Online school was the only option this year. She’s missed too many days to keep up in person.

At least she’s resting.

I linger in the doorway a few extra seconds to make sure her chest is rising and falling, then pad down the hall.

The sound of running water echoes from the Jack-and-Jill bathroom that connects Jackie’s room to Kevin’s. I knock lightly.

“Dinner’s almost ready,” I call.

“Okay!” he yells back over the spray.

I continue deeper into the house, climbing the second staircase—the one that creaks less—up to the third floor, to my room and the office.

The house is too big for only the four of us. It made sense when Mom and Dad were here, when there were enough hands to keep things running. But they’ve been gone over three years, and now...

The ceilings are tall, the windows drafty, and every room is painted in some vibrant color or wallpapered with patterns older than Methuselah. It’s beautiful in that eccentric, lived-in way, like a house that’s seen too many Mardi Gras parades and refuses to tone it down.

No mortgage to pay, thank the heavens, only taxes, utilities, and an endless list of repairs sucking the life out of me one busted pipe at a time. I could sell. But that would mean declaring them legally dead. And even if it’s true, I’m not ready to let go of that last thread.

I push open the heavy door to my office and it thumps into something solid.

I squeeze through the doorway, sidestepping Kevin’s chaos. His sports bag is behind the door, his mitt and ball have taken over the recliner, his backpack has exploded across the chaise, and his bat is leaning against my desk.

I weave through the mess and collapse into the desk chair, a mahogany Victorian number upholstered in red velvet.

It creaks ominously under me but doesn’t give.

Dad loved this stuff. The rest of us mocked him for it.

Who willingly fills a house with furniture that could double as medieval torture devices?

But here it is. Still here. Still heavy. Still uncomfortable as hell.

I glance at the bag under the desk. The lamp is inside. Waiting.

My fingers tingle.

I could take a quick peek. Just for a minute.

I reach for the bag, barely grazing the edge, when Kevin clomps in wrapped in a towel, damp hair sticking up like he wrestled the shower and lost.

“I couldn’t shower. The water’s cold.”

It takes a second for the words to compute. “What?”

“The shower won’t get warm.”

“Maybe the water heater needs to be re-lit.” It’s an ancient beast that lives in the basement.

“Mimi already tried. She said it’s busted.”

I throw up my hands. “Of course it is.”

Because why wouldn’t the water heater die today? It only completes the disaster aesthetic: molding floorboards, a leaky roof, a flickering electric system. Now we’ve added freezing showers to the growing list of things for Cassie to stress about.

I was hoping things would hold on long enough to pay off the more urgent bills. But no, clearly the water heater had other plans. It wanted to die dramatically. Along with everything else around here.

I drag myself up from the velvet seat with a creak and a groan, shoving the bag deeper under the desk like I can bury my curiosity along with it.

“Come on. You can take a bath tonight, after dinner,” I tell Kevin. “We’ll heat water on the stove like it’s 1892.”

While Kevin gets dressed, I retreat to the kitchen. “How was Jackie today?” I ask Mimi before she can even open her mouth.

A classic defensive maneuver. Cut her off at the pass. If I keep her focused on our biggest concern, maybe she won’t remember to interrogate me about my earlier trip to Ernie’s or the mysterious bags I swore were “nothing important.” Pay no attention to the witch behind the curtain.

Thankfully, it works. For now.

“She slept off and on.” Mimi heaves a skillet of cornbread from the oven.

My stomach growls. I lean against the counter and rub my head. “That’s good.”

She slides a bread knife from the block. “Headache?”

“Always.”

She frowns. “You work too much. You need to take a break. Go out with your friends, let your hair down. Maybe get laid.”

My mouth pops open. “Mimi!”

“What?” She shrugs. “You’re young.”

“I’m twenty-eight.” Going on forty-five, but still, not exactly a babe in the woods.

“Do you know what I was up to when I was your age?” She lifts her brows.

I wince. “Do I want to know?”

“Let’s just say, I made sure I lived it up before I settled down with your uncle, bless his soul. And you should too. Will you set the table?”

I nod, anything to save me from the path this conversation is taking.

I grab the bowls from the cabinet, silverware from the drawer, and head to the thick wood table in the connected dining area.

It’s the kind of table that could survive a hurricane, or be used to summon a demon, depending on how you arrange the candles.

I set a spoon on a bright red placemat, and the utensil immediately twitches sideways, clattering to the floor.

I lift a brow at Mimi.

She waves an oven mitt in the air like she’s swatting away a fly. “One of Kevin’s visitors. It’s an active one. Harmless, though. Had to be, if they made it past the wards.”

“They better be,” I mutter, bending to retrieve the spoon. “We paid an arm and a leg for those hex bags. And suffered through two weeks of Richard to get them.”

Every doorway and window now has a charm bag—herbs, crystals, stitched symbols, all spelled to keep out the nasty spirits. Though friendly ghosts can waltz right in and help themselves to the cornbread, apparently.

I hold the spoon up. “Okay, ghosty. Kevin’s just a kid. Be patient. His gifts are new and unstable. No acting out.”

The lights flicker in response.

Hopefully that was agreement and not foreshadowing. We do not have time or money for another poltergeist incident. The last one almost ate the washing machine. To spirits, Kevin is a flare shining through the dark fog, brilliant, burning, and impossible to keep away from.

“Anyway.” I turn back to Mimi. “I bought the music box from Ernie. Got enough to make a partial payment for Jackie’s last ER visit. That should keep collections off us for another month.”

She pauses midslice, knife hovering in the air. “Cassie?—”

“I’ll figure it out, Mimi. No worrying.” I walk over and rest a hand on her tense shoulder. “I got a call from someone hunting for some specific Marie Laveau items. They’re willing to spend a small fortune. I’m meeting them next week. We’ll be okay.”

She keeps cutting cornbread, tossing the pieces into a shallow, towel-lined bowl. “Are you going to tell me what else you brought home that has you all twitchy and telling lies?” Mimi asks, not even looking at me. The question is casual. The tone is not.

“I don’t know yet.”