Page 6

Chapter

Five

R onan and I ate warmed-up tacos and cookies at his breakfast bar while he grilled me on who I’d been stalking, and I steadfastly refused to tell him.

“I don’t see why it needs to be a secret.”

“It’s a job, Ronan. I can’t disclose anything at this time. Later, I’ll tell you as much as I can.”

“All right. I get it. I’ll change the subject.” He glanced over at Cecil, who was lounging on the coffee table. “Betty said you’d take a look at the property outside my pub and advise me on how to make it more welcoming to pollinators.”

The sugar must’ve finally kicked in, because Cecil leapt off the table, ran across the floor, and climbed up to the kitchen window. He surveyed the property with what I could only assume was a critical eye, since I couldn’t actually see his eyes, then demanded pencil and paper.

He sketched out a garden design while Ronan and I ate.

By the time we were finished, so was Cecil.

“This is amazing,” Ronan said, as he studied the drawing. “So detailed. You’re an artist, Cecil. ”

“He’s a master gardener, too. We’ll pull together the seedlings you’ll need to put this plan into action. It’ll be fun.” I dusted my sugary fingers on a napkin.

“And lucrative,” Ronan said. “Because I’ll be paying for any work you two do here.”

“It’s not that big a deal. With a little magic, we can knock it out in an afternoon.”

“Regardless, I’m paying.” He held up a hand when I started to object again. “I’ll write it off as a bar expense. After all, it’s a beautification project, right?”

We oohed and aahed over Cecil’s design for a little while longer before I headed to the door and faced Ronan on the doorstep.

“Again, I’m sorry for what happened here. Embarrassed, too, but mostly sorry.”

“Quit apologizing. I’ve already forgiven you for giving me the worst case of blue balls since the last time we slept together,” he said, mocking me with an exaggerated look of pain.

“Oh, stop playing the martyr. You aren’t the only one who suffered that night, Pallás.” I gave him a look that wiped the fake pain right off his face. “And every night since.”

I set Cecil on my shoulder and went down the steps to the street.

“You are the whole damn package, Betty Lennox,” he called after me. It wasn’t the first time he’d said it, but it always hit me the same way. “And I can’t wait to unwrap you.”

“Stop playing so hard to get then,” I replied without looking back.

I strolled past the pub door on my way to the car. There was a hand-written sign taped to it that listed Cinco de Mayo specials. Like the door, it was spelled to only be visible to paranormals. I knew that because I’d spelled the sign for Gladys, who still worked for Ronan when she felt like it.

My cell rang when I was halfway to the car. “Friday night, Betty Lennox. You, me, a bottle of wine. Maybe some cookies. Definitely dinner.”

Every nerve ending in my body crackled to life. The man was good.

“It’s a date,” I said.

“Oh, it’s more than that. Pack a bag.” He ended the call.

“Holy smokes,” I whispered, fanning myself.

Now, I wasn’t a fool.

Ronan hadn’t yet told me exactly why he’d been freezing me out. There was a chance he wouldn’t make it Friday night, for reasons that would no doubt piss me off, but I wasn’t going to waste time being preemptively angry about it.

Frankly, I needed all the joy and positivity I could muster right now. My next stop was the home of a person I despised even more than corporate farming practices and armpit sweat. Unfortunately, talking to her was necessary.

Because there was no way I was going to be able to take down Desmond Mace without drawing the attention of the head witch of the La Paloma coven.

Margaux Ramirez, the coven mother of the La Paloma witches, was an uptight, insufferable ass and a bad friend.

I’d said that last part to her face when she’d showed up at my place with Alpha Floyd, and I still meant it. The coven worked with the wolf shifter pack, was on retainer last I’d heard, and that alone was reason enough to dislike her. But there were other reasons, too. More than even her betrayal of my mother.

Because the fact that Bronwyn hadn’t felt comfortable going to her own coven mother with her suspicions about Desmond was very telling.

“Disgusting. I can’t believe he did this.”

Bronwyn’s voice was hushed. There were probably customers nearby.

I rolled up my window and raised the volume on my hands-free system so I could hear her better. “Honestly, it shocked me, too. Cecil found the bags in every room and throughout the yard. That’s a lot of work, and Desmond is the laziest witch in your coven. My mom had nothing but disdain for his work ethic.”

“Guess he found a reason to get off his ass.” It was uncanny to hear her grouse. Misplaced and odd, like hearing a librarian scream or a funeral director laugh.

“Maybe, maybe not. He could’ve had someone else do it for him.”

Bronwyn went quiet. “You’re thinking someone in the coven, aren’t you?”

Indeed I was. Something was wrong in that group of witches. Worse yet, if Margaux wasn’t complicit, that meant she was unable to control her witches. Not good.

“I won’t know for sure until I talk to the wickedest of witches in town—and I don’t mean that in a good way.”

“Margaux? Do you really think that’s necessary?”

I blinked at the phone. “You don’t?”

“If Desmond’s responsible, and if, as you say, someone in the coven helped him do it, I just don’t understand how we can trust her.” She sighed. “I feel filthy even saying that about my coven mother, but I’m worried.”

“Hey, hey, now,” I said, “Let’s not get ahead of ourselves. No one said anything about trusting Margaux.”

“Then why involve her?”

“Politics. Look, if I take a swing at Coven-member Mace, the third highest-ranked member of the La Paloma coven, it’ll bring the whole lot of you down on my head, and I don’t have the time or energy to deal with that level of BS. I only want to go after Desmond Mace, the creepy little bastard who zombified his wife. The best way to do that?—”

“Is through Margaux,” she said, gloomily.

“Well, yeah. It’s a long shot that I’ll get her permission, but I have to try. Is that going to bother you? If I go against the coven?”

“If it bothered me, I wouldn’t have called you in the first place.” She blew out a short, sharp, resolute breath. “Do whatever you feel is necessary to save Maya. Damn the cost. Thank you, Betty.”

She ended the call.

My story was going to be that Maya had approached me before she was spelled and asked me to investigate her husband. He’d been growing increasingly violent toward her, and she wanted to leave but was afraid. Bronwyn’s name wouldn’t enter the conversation except when Margaux brought it up.

And she would.

I might not like the woman, but she wasn’t stupid. She’d see right through my lame story, and it would be fine, because it wasn’t for her to believe , it was for her to act on . A way to save face with the rest of the coven.

“Cecil, I’m going to pull over by this cotton field. I know the farmer, and he won’t shoot me for trespassing. He doesn’t know you.” I shot him my most serious, most forbidding look. “He’s got a protection spell on his land similar to the one I have on the Siete Saguaros, so stay in the car unless you want to violently revisit that giant cookie you ate for lunch.”

Cecil shrugged one tiny shoulder.

“Trust me. Don’t try it. Mom performed the original spell, and I renew it every six months.”

That scored me a huffy little chitter.

I got out of the car, slipped off my shoes, and walked into the field, slowing my breaths, focusing on my footsteps. The soil here was cherished by the owners, and that was evident in the beautiful, healthy crops they grew.

When my magic had started to fail me, this was one of the places I’d come to feel better. We didn’t connect fully because the earth here didn’t belong to me, but the soil had always expressed joy at my presence and been generous about sharing its magic with me.

“ Mother Earth, please lend me your magic .”

I drew in a deep breath. Released it slowly, counting from ten to one. I used the same process my mom and abuela had taught me as a young girl, because the first thing a Lennox witch learned was how to ground herself. It was the essential base from which all power arose. If a witch failed to ground herself, she ran the risk of being overwhelmed by her own magic.

The hex bag lay deep at the bottom of a nullification bag. I shook it out and watched it sink into the soil. I hovered my hands above the spot where it lay in a shallow grave and sent magic into it.

“ Protect .”

The second the words left my lips, the soil shifted. My magic combined with the power in the soil to encapsulate the nasty bag in a protective bubble that kept any magic from fleeing. It was a necessary first step. I’d never run the risk of harming the soil or crops here.

“ Reveal .”

The point of the spell was to temporarily nullify the bag so I could take a closer look. I needed to see what it was comprised of because I was about to show Margaux Ramirez the sort of fuckery one of her witches was up to, and if I went in without being fully informed, she’d crush me with doubt.

The woman was a pro at intimidation. I used to admire her for it.

The bag reflected my magic back at me, and I picked up traces of three different types of soils, fifteen different herbs, and a drop of blood to seal the lot. I’d be willing to bet that was Maya’s blood, and I didn’t want to think about how Desmond had procured it.

I let the spell spin out and brought the bag back to the surface.

“This is a dirty spell,” I said aloud. “And not in a good way.”

I turned the null bag inside out and used it like a glove to pick up the burlap bundle, shaking off the soil before turning the bag right side out again and sealing it with a length of twine.

That done, my feet sank an inch into the soil. Heat spread through my limbs. Not the red-hot feeling, but a gentle hugging warmth. After a few minutes of this, I thanked the earth for her generosity and dug my feet out, reveling in the almost electric feel of the soil on my skin.

It wasn’t easy to break free. Everything magic in me wanted to stay linked up with the earth here, even if it wasn’t mine. It was welcoming, and I deeply craved that acceptance from the soil.

“I’ll return.” I sent it a last pulse of magic, and it immediately reciprocated in kind.

With that boost of confidence, I held out my dusty arms and waited for the burn as the soil vaporized and was absorbed. It came like a skulking thief, stealing my breath. My blood boiled with magic. I grounded myself one last time, taking care to keep the power in check.

Last thing I needed was to accidentally unleash it on Margaux and start a war with the entire coven. Taking on Desmond Mace would be trouble enough.

Cecil hummed, and I sang along with Freddy Mercury when Queen’s “You’re My Best Friend” came on the radio. The gnome had pretty good pitch.

“Starting to think they gave the empath DJ the day off,” I said, when the song switched to “Sentimental Lady” by Bob Welch and then Carole King’s “You’ve Got A Friend.”

Cecil didn’t appear to hear. He was too busy singing along with Carole.

Coven Mother Margaux lived in a two-bedroom bungalow on the poorer side of a rich part of town. There was new paint on the outside of her house and freshly planted marigolds in the garden.

They were wilted.

Like Bronwyn, Margaux was a taught, or made, witch. Her official title was “certified white magic witch.” Some elementals looked down on made witches. I wasn’t one of them, and neither my mother nor grandmother had been, either.

I recalled a porch swing chat with Mom late one winter night.

“Made witches are every bit as dangerous as an elemental. Possibly more. They chose to study magic where it was thrust upon us. Never underestimate a taught witch—especially one with aspirations.”

Margaux was definitely a witch with aspirations.

My polite knock was met with a melodic, “Be right there. ”

Behave yourself, Betty. Best behavior required.

My mother’s words.

Don’t punch Margaux in the face, no matter how punchable her face is.

Those words? All mine.

I glanced down at the depressed marigolds, pushed a little magic into the soil, and watched the blooms lift their ruffled faces to the sky.

A breeze lifted the ends of my hair, cooled my back and shoulders. The sun was high in the late morning sky, but it wasn’t the summer orb of fire. This was spring sunshine, the desert summer’s kinder, gentler cousin.

“Couldn’t resist, could you?”

Margaux stood in the doorway. I hadn’t heard the door open. I’d bet a thousand bucks she’d used a muffling spell to hide the noise so she could sneak up on me. It felt like something she’d do.

“It wasn’t a slight. I saw the flowers suffering and was compelled to help.” I’d thought the comment equitable, considering the powerful hatred I had for the witch standing before me.

Margaux Ramirez was Cinderella’s stepmother, Snow White’s evil queen, and puppy-fur-coat-wearing Cruella de Vil all rolled into one.

Her skin was pale olive, her hair glossy black with a streak of silver at her temple. She was only forty, but looked older in an over-polished, cold sort of way. She was gloom to Bronwyn’s cheer, and diabolically pragmatic where Bronwyn was sweetly practical.

Margaux was suspicious of everyone but, if the look in those cruel hazel eyes was any indication, especially me. That was fair, because I would’ve loved nothing more than to see her pay for what she’d done to my mother. Or, rather, what she hadn’t done, which was come to her aid when she’d needed help most.

“What brings you here? Is this the day we finally square off?” Her dark red lips twisted in a mockery of a smile. “Have you come to challenge me? ”

“Aww, have you been waiting for me to come for you?” I gave her a snide grin. “Sitting here trembling in your silent house with only your treasonous witches and dying marigolds to keep you company?”

Cecil gripped the hair at the back of my neck. He didn’t seem to like Margaux, which showed the gnome occasionally had good sense.

“Treasonous witches? In my coven?” She ratcheted up the evil queen vibe and added an eye roll. “Perish the thought.”

I inwardly sighed. Margaux was steeling herself for whatever bullshit she thought I was bringing to her door. I needed her not to do that. I needed her to listen to me.

“Look, as fun as it is to verbally spar with you, I do actually have an issue you need to be made aware of.”

Her expression went from haughty to serious. “Issue?”

“Margaux, I don’t like you. You know why. So, the fact that I’m bringing this to you first, instead of handling it myself, should be a sign that I trust you to govern your coven.” I held up the null bag, and she backed up a step.

“What is it?”

“A nasty little piece of magic. Can we go inside and discuss this? I promise to behave myself as long as you do.”

A line appeared between her brows. “Who?”

“Inside. Please.” At her suspicious look, I added, “Or you can come to my place. Or we can meet at a crossroads on a full moon at fucking midnight. I just need to talk to you in private.”

“Goddess, you have a foul mouth. Come inside. Take off your shoes. I just had the carpet cleaned.”

“I’m keeping them on,” I said.

She rolled her eyes. “You think I have the floor spelled against you?”

“I would, if I were you.”

Her upper lip curled, and she looked down her nose at me. “Keep them on, then. Just stay on the paper runner. ”

Her home was decorated in whites and creams and gold. The living room sofa and chairs looked like they’d never been sat upon. The end and coffee tables had no photos or personal items on them, only a clean stack of probably-never-read hardback books, two ceramic lamps, and four delicate marble coasters in a gold holder. No art on the walls, only large, framed mirrors so clean she had to have wiped them down just before I arrived.

It was beautiful, yet cold, like Margaux herself.

“I see you brought along one of your familiars.”

Cecil, who’d been inching his way to my shoulder, froze.

“I don’t have familiars. I have partners,” I said. “Fennel is his own cat, and Cecil is his own gnome. They are under no obligation to stay with me and may leave whenever it suits them.”

“Yet they choose to stay.” She shook her head, one corner of her deep red smile crooking up. “You gather creatures to you. People, too. Lila preferred her solitude. You’re very like her and yet very different at the same time.”

Just the subject I’d wanted to avoid—my mom. Still, I couldn’t stop myself from retorting, “Yeah, I have a good friend who would lay down her life for me if I was in danger, unlike my mom .”

Margaux stiffened. Her head whipped around, eyes narrowed, mouth open as if ready to reply with something equally scathing. It was the most animated I’d ever seen her, and I was a little taken aback.

She sipped in a breath, released it. “Are we going to trade barbs or are you going to get to the point?”

“I’m going to get to the point.” I held up the bag again. “Where can I dump this out?”

“How strong is it?”

“Strong.”

Margaux disappeared down the hall, reappearing a minute later with a black velvet square and a long, zippered pouch—the sort a knitter might use to store needles. “This should be sufficient.” She spread it on her dining table.

We sat, her at the head of the table, and me to her right. I chanted a protection spell as I released the knot and shook the hex bag onto the pad.

Margaux gave me an annoyed look I didn’t understand before unzipping her tool bag and extracting a pair of silver chopsticks and a small scalpel. She held the sticks between two elegant fingers as she sliced open the hex.

Smoke coiled from the scalpel as it cut through the burlap. Margaux then used the chopsticks to hold open the sides with one hand while grabbing several long needles with the other. She pinned back the edges until it looked like a formaldehyde frog in a high school biology class.

“Do you recognize the ingredients?” I asked.

“I recognize the entire spell,” she replied, voice hushed. What little color there was in her face washed away. “My father—” She cleared her throat, shook her head. “I’ve seen these used on people before. Years ago.”

“And you remembered it on sight?”

“This isn’t the sort of spell a person forgets. Father taught me how to identify the spell and ward against it—indirectly, but the effect was the same. Where did you get this?”

“Desmond Mace is using them on his wife. She was leaving him, and I guess ol’ Dezzy couldn’t deal with that, so he used the remaining dregs of their marital connection to…” I gestured toward the mess on the velvet.

“That prick .” Margaux spat the word.

I was less surprised by her choice of epithet and more surprised that she’d taken me at my word. Either she’d had suspicions about the man or she trusted me to tell her the truth.

Either was disturbing.

“I’d suspected Desmond was up to something,” she said, dispelling any doubt about her reasoning. “But this is egregious. How did you find out— Bronwyn .” She sat up primly and nodded. “Yes, that makes the most sense.”

“Maya came to me,” I said and then gave her the whole contrived story.

Margaux appeared bemused. “Inventive, but a lie. Bronwyn and Maya Reeves are close. You and Bronwyn are also close. The logical explanation is that Bronwyn asked you to help her friend, and because you were taught by Lila, you have a strict privacy policy.”

“That’s totally not the case.” I didn’t try all that hard to sell it. I’d known going in that Margaux would figure it out. “But if it were, would it bother you that one of your witches didn’t trust the La Paloma coven to police its own?”

She set her baleful russet gaze on me. “Not at all. It means she’s paying attention.”