Page 35 of A Bond with the Dark

“Ready?” he asks, his dark lashes sweeping down my body as he checks me out.

“Ready,” I say with a smirk as he leads outside.

His hand is strong and comforting against the small of my back as he whisks me to the passenger side of the sleek-looking black Mercedes in my driveway. He pulls open the door for me and waits until I’m all the way in before securing the door closed.

New car scents tickle my senses as the cool leather of the tan seats greets any bare flesh that touches it. I sit in the seat, stowing my purse below me, and fasten the seatbelt around my lap.

“So,” he says as he clamors in, pressing the glowing button that ignites the engine, “which way? I followed GPS to get here. I need you to get me to the restaurant.”

“Sure, just go that way until the stop sign and then take a left.”

He does as I say, pulling his seatbelt on as he backs down the driveway.

Billie Holiday serenades us from the stereo. He flicks the music down by a button on the steering wheel.

“So, you’re a witch?” he asks nonchalantly.

“What?” I ask incredulously, the flush to my cheeks making it hot in the car. “Go straight at the stop sign.”

He passed right by my spell cabinet. And the altar by the window.

“It’s okay. I don’t judge.”

“Well,” I say hesitantly.

It’s hard to talk about this with people who don’t know me. I watch as the car’s headlights illuminate the fields of corn and sod farms that pepper Highway One, searching the amber waves for words to say. Highway One is the back country road that connects the big city of Fort Collins to the small farm town of Wellington.

“I saw your cabinet,” his voice severs the silence. “And some other things.”

“Oh,” I say, the words and explanations all lost on me like the shadows that scamper back into the darkness as the light from the car shines on them.

“It’s all right. My sister is Wiccan. She practices magick. I’ve known a few other witches in my day as well.”

“I haven’t been practicing for long. I’m still learning.”

“Oh, yeah? Who’s teaching you?”

“Myself. My mom and grandma were witches, too, but I didn’t learn much from them when they were alive. So, I’m reading the books they left behind.”

“Books? Like grimoires?”

“Yes, exactly. Not too many people these days know what a grimoire is.”

“Like I said, witches in the family,” he says, and his lip quirks upward in the corner as he looks at me. “So, tell me about your witchy ways? That intrigues me.”

“Does it?” I tilt my head, eyes grazing sideways to meet his.

A subtle pallor washes over me, my skin reacting to how I intrigue him. His gaze remains fixed on the road ahead, yet the curiosity that emanates is palpable, seeping from his eyes and enveloping me. It’s like the interest is a tangible force dissolving into my being.

“Not much to tell yet,” I utter, almost embarrassed. “I just do random spells here and there. I believe in the goddess as much as the god, and I believe in karma; you get back what you put into the universe. I don’t believe in hurting anyone.”

“I feel that. What kind of spells?”

“Um, I do spells for luck, healing, and prosperity. That sort of thing.”

“And does it work?”

“So far, I think so. It’s nothing immediate, but I feel that it helps. Lately, I’ve been doing spells to help my parents into the afterlife and for my heart to heal eventually.”

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