Page 9 of Dream Weaver (Spellbound in Sedona #3)

COOPER

My third day working with Abby started just as quietly — but a little less aggressively — as the previous two. She spent most of the morning rejigging the fittings for the new ax, making me wonder. Was she procrastinating or being really, really fastidious?

Then I thought of the portrait on the fire station wall and the responsibility she’d been saddled with. Twenty lucky axes to protect an entire fire crew.

Fastidious, I decided, wiping sweat from my brow.

By midmorning, Abby finished the fittings, assembled her glistening new ax, and headed outside, with me trailing — uselessly? hopefully? — along.

At the edge of the back lot, rough asphalt gave way to rocky ground. Abby hacked at it a few times, checking the head, then the tail of the Pulaski. Her easy handling of the tool demonstrated she really had worked as a wildland firefighter, and not just for one season.

I wondered what made her stop. Having Claire, maybe?

Either way, she had a pretty interesting — and impressive — résumé. Witch. Firefighter. Blacksmith. Loving mother. Still, so many mysteries remained.

“Here. You try it.” She shoved the ax at me.

I blinked. If she had entrusted me with her daughter, I wouldn’t have been any less surprised.

She gestured. “The balance is fine, but I think I angled the adze end a little too sharply.”

I weighed the tool up in one hand, then chopped up a patch of soil and dragged the loose earth into a long furrow. Next, I levered up a chunk of asphalt that had dribbled off a corner of the parking lot.

The ax practically sang in my hands, and I could have gone on happily hacking at the back lot for hours. This was what I was trained for. What I was born for, it felt like. But it was one thing to chop up a chunk of wilderness to protect it, and another to turn Walt’s back lot into a wasteland. So I stopped, weighing up the ax again. It was near perfect in every way. The angle was a degree or two off, but I would have been hard-pressed to identify what felt wrong if Abby hadn’t mentioned it.

So, kudos to my stubborn, antisocial boss. She had a damn good feel for metal — and firefighting.

“The balance is perfect,” I told her. “And you’re right that the angle is a little sharp, but some like it that way. My cousin had his Pulaski adjusted to an even tighter angle.”

“Cousin, huh? Which one?”

So, she’d listened in on Claire and me chatting. Interesting.

“Jack,” I said as if that meant anything to her.

But, heck. She’d actually spoken to me. Not exactly sparkling conversation, but not the stone wall she’d been yesterday.

She took the tool from me and studied it for imperfections.

A neighboring shop — Facet-nating Gems — shared the back lot, and a salesperson in one of their signature turquoise-and-orange T-shirts paced around with a phone glued to her ear.

“Not a single one,” she lamented. “Yes, I tried all of them, but not one of the gems charged.” She turned and paced in the other direction. “It’s as if someone switched off the vortex.”

Abby’s head snapped around.

“I can try Boynton Canyon, or I can wait until tomorrow.” She paused, listening. “I mean, the vortexes have fluctuated before, but never like this. Even my psychic reader didn’t see this coming.”

I frowned. Psychic what?

Abby’s brow creased, and she stared into the distance, then at the furrow I’d dug.

A minute ticked by, then another, as she grimly considered the earth.

I inched away. Just in case.

“Hang on a second,” she finally said, jogging inside.

I waited in the doorway as she grabbed her jacket and called to Walt. “We’ll be out for a while, okay? We need to test this ax.”

We did?

Walt didn’t so much as peep in protest — a testament to his trust in Abby.

She grabbed two things — Rich’s vintage ax and a big burlap sack — then stormed over to her car. She unlocked it, then turned to me with an annoyed look.

“Hurry up, already. And bring that ax.”

* * *

The fifteen-minute drive that followed was one of the strangest of my life. 1990s Ford Fiestas were not made for bears, and I had barely squeezed into the front seat. In my rush, I’d stood the axes on the floor between my knees. Every time the car hit a bump, I winced, picturing the damage the handles would wreak on my private parts.

Now that would be a story I wouldn’t ever share around a campfire.

Abby drove in fierce concentration, not uttering a word.

I considered the situation. She could be driving to a remote location to off me for all I knew. Then again, I was the one holding an ax.

“We’re testing the ax…at the airport?” I asked as we sped by a sign.

“No.”

That was all I got for the next mile, until she turned off into a trailhead parking lot, where she parked alongside a handful of earlier arrivals. She stuck both axes in the burlap bag, then handed it to me and set off down the trail.

“Follow me.”

“Sure, boss,” I muttered, resting the ax handles on my shoulder.

I’d gone from unwelcome assistant to her personal sherpa. Did that count as a promotion?

The trail marker read Airport Mesa Vortex . I didn’t know much about vortexes, but I was sure axing them would be frowned upon. Plus, did I really want to visit a vortex with a witch?

We passed two parties coming from the opposite direction, and both gave me startled looks.

“You know how sketchy this looks?” I hissed.

“What?” Abby glanced back.

“A small, angry woman stomping away from a big guy hefting something in a burlap bag.”

“I’m not small. And I’m not angry,” she growled, whirling away again. “Also, you’re not that big.”

Ha. Tell that to the Ford Fiesta.

“You’re making me look like an ax murderer,” I complained.

“Well, that wouldn’t be a stretch,” she muttered.

Now, that hurt my ego. I was a firefighter, hero to small children and the occasional adult — especially those whose homes were surrounded by flames, as my sister had once observed dryly. That was when the average citizen upped his or her appreciation for “unskilled workers” like us.

“I could murder you and stuff your body in this sack, and no one would notice,” I said just as a couple appeared at the next bend.

They stopped in their tracks.

“Just kidding,” I mumbled, hurrying past.

The next twenty minutes passed silently except for the crunch of our boots over gravel. We were high up on Airport Mesa, and the views were amazing. Capital Butte, Cathedral Rock, Wilson Mountain… Everywhere I looked, rocks jutted up in jagged formations, and the scent of juniper filled my nose.

Heavenly, except for the ax murderer part.

“This way.” Abby cut right, off the trail. Five minutes after, she stopped and studied the ground.

“Isn’t the vortex over there?” I pointed to where a handful of hikers snapped photos slightly downslope from our position, barely visible through the scrubby trees.

Abby shook her head, then held a hand out, palm down, and followed it around.

“That’s where the sign points, but the heart of the vortex is right…about…here.”

She stopped, looking down.

I kept a tight grip on the ax. If she pulled anything witchy, I was out of there.

“Vortex, huh?” I didn’t sense a thing.

“It comes and goes.” Abby stepped back and glanced around. Her gaze narrowed on something at the edge of the clearing.

“There. Look at that.”

I stepped over cautiously. “Those ashes, you mean?”

There was a whole pile of them, and fairly fresh.

Abby shook her head, dismissing them. “Lots of folks burn incense or make campfires at vortexes. They’re not supposed to, but they do.” Then she pointed. “I mean, that.”

I turned, following a rough, arched line scraped into the earth.

The wind ruffled my hair, and a raven crowed.

“What do those marks remind you of?” Abby kept her voice low.

Okay, this was getting a little spooky.

I found myself whispering, as if someone — or something — might overhear. “Looks like a fire line.”

Abby nodded grimly, then motioned for an ax. I unwrapped them slowly and handed over the one she’d made, then stepped back. It was always wise to give Abby a wide berth.

Back in Walt’s parking lot, she’d hefted the ax with power and expertise. Now, she barely tapped the ground.

But, whoa. The earth shook, and I stuck out my arms.

Startled cries rose up from the tourists.

Abby looked up, wide-eyed. Then she dragged the ax a few inches, creating a faint line parallel to the one already there.

There was no sound, but I was somehow reminded of the rumbly, dangerous noise bears made when they emerged from winter dens.

Abby stared at her creation, then motioned for the vintage ax. When we swapped, I held the ax she’d forged as far from my body as I could.

Abby raised the vintage ax, aiming for the same spot.

“Um, maybe you shouldn’t—” I started.

Too late. The pick end sliced into the ground, and we both waited warily. But there was no rumble this time. No disturbance at all.

Abby swapped the axes one more time with the same results. The earth groaned from a hit with the tool she’d crafted, but the vintage Pulaski set off no reaction at all.

“You try.” She handed me the new ax.

A cold breeze snuck under my collar, sending chills down my back.

I stuck my hands up. This was one of those times when a smart bear would head for the hills.

“I need to see if it’s the ax…” She swallowed hard. “…or me.”

I stared. If I found the slightest hint of malice — or madness — in there, I was out of here. But Abby’s eyes revealed a soul that was scared and confused. A lot like me.

Raising the ax slowly, I gave the earth a meek tap no firefighter worth their salt would waste their time with.

When it hit the ground, I cringed. But there was nothing. Just the quiet scrape of steel over rock.

“Try again,” Abby urged. “Harder.”

I did it again — and again. Still nothing.

We swapped back twice more, with the same result each time. The only combination that caused a reaction was when Abby used the ax she’d made.

Which meant…what exactly?

Witch, a voice in the back of my mind warned. She made the ax that disturbs the vortex, and there’s only a disturbance when she’s the one hefting it.

I followed her gaze as it ran along the original furrow we’d left untouched.

“That was from this morning, huh?” I asked.

She nodded quietly.

“And you weren’t the one who did it?”

She shook her head, looking spooked.

Yikes. Did that mean there was another witch on the loose with another spelled ax?

Definitely time for a smart bear to make tracks. But I just stood there, wondering what was worse: a witch who knew exactly what she was capable of or one who had no clue?

Any bear in his right mind would absorb all this with a mix of fear, loathing, and disgust. But I only registered the fear part. Abby might be a witch, but she seemed okay.

More than okay, my bear whispered.

A little rough around the edges, maybe, but she worked hard. Plus, she was a loving mother with unwavering devotion to her child. Values any bear could relate to, even if parts of her life were kind of a mess.

“So, someone else did that,” I concluded.

Another nod.

“Who?” I ventured.

She shook her head slowly. “I don’t know. But they didn’t use this ax.”

I scratched my chin, still trying to puzzle it out. Another witch — or part witch, or whatever Abby was — and another ax? If so, which ax?

Then it clicked, and my eyes went wide.

“Someone with the stolen ax?”

Abby blew out a long, slow breath. “I hope not, but yes.”

My gut twisted in warning. “So, someone using a spelled ax is disturbing the vortexes… But why?”

She blew out her cheeks, and the furrow in her brow deepened. “I wish I knew.”