Page 4 of Blood Match

As I finish my preparations, I can’t help but glance out the window toward my parents’ house. Its normal, upmarket suburban appearance belies the powerful witches who live there. Witches whose power I should have running in my blood. I swallow hard, pushing down the familiar feeling of inadequacy.

“Okay, Rowan,” I tell myself firmly. “You can do this. It’s just one spell. How hard can it be?”

A knock at the door makes me jump, nearly knocking over a vial of rosemary oil. I smooth a hand over a wave of auburn hair, tucking a stray strand behind my ear.

“Coming!” I call, my voice cracking slightly. I clear my throat and try again. “Just a moment!”

Poppy scampers to the windowsill. “Ooh, she looks fancy. Better put on your game face, Ro!”

I take a deep breath, steadying myself and plastering on what I hope is a confident smile as I open the door.

“Welcome,” I say, ushering in a well-dressed woman in her forties. “Please, come in. I’m Rowan Blackwood.”

The client steps inside, her eyes darting around the cluttered cottage. “I’m Margaret. I heard you might be able to help me with…a tricky matter.”

“Of course,” I nod, gesturing to a chair. “Please, have a seat. Can I offer you some tea?”

Margaret shakes her head, perching on the edge of the chair. “No, thank you. I’d rather get straight to business, if you don’t mind.”

“Certainly,” I say, sitting across from her. My hands fidget in my lap, and I force them still. “What can I help you with today?”

Margaret lowers her voice. “I’ve lost something very important to me. A family heirloom – a locket that used to belong to my husband’s grandmother. He’ll kill me if he finds out it’s gone. I’ve searched everywhere, but it’s just…vanished. I was hoping you might be able to use your…abilities to help me find it.”

I nod, trying to look sage and mysterious. From the expression on Margaret’s face, I’m not succeeding, so I try a smile instead. “A locator spell. Yes, I can certainly help with that.”

Poppy chooses that moment to leap onto the table between us, causing Margaret to gasp as she drops an acorn onto the table between us.

Dammit, Poppy!

I laugh nervously, shooing Poppy away. “Sorry about that. My familiar can be a bit…enthusiastic.”

Margaret eyes Poppy warily. “Is that…a squirrel?”

“Yes, she is,” I say, feeling my cheeks flush. Most witches get sleek black cats or majestic owls. Me…I get this. “Poppy’s quite talented, actually. She has a knack for finding things.”

“Right,” Margaret says, looking unconvinced. “Well, can you help me or not?”

I straighten up, pushing my insecurities aside. “Absolutely. A locator spell is well within my capabilities. We’ll have your locket found in no time.” Poppy makes a noise that sounds suspiciously like a disbelieving snort, but I don’t look her way.

I take a deep breath, centering myself as I prepare to cast the locator spell. Margaret watches expectantly, her fingers twisting nervously in her lap. Poppy perches on a nearby shelf, her beady eyes fixed on me.

“Okay,” I say, trying to sound confident. “Let’s begin.”

I close my eyes, focusing on the energy around me. The words of the spell flow from my lips, my hands moving in intricate patterns. At first, everything seems to be going smoothly. I can feel the magic building, a tingling sensation spreading through my fingertips. It’s just a tiny twinge, but that’s more than I’m used to.

Then, without warning, things start to go sideways.

A sudden burst of sparks erupts from the candles, causing Margaret to yelp in surprise. I stumble over my words, trying to regain control, but it’s too late. Objects around the room begin to levitate unpredictably – books, vials, even Margaret’s purse.

“Is this…normal?” Margaret asks, her voice rising in pitch as she ducks to avoid a floating teacup.

“Absolutely!” I lie, frantically trying to remember the correct gestures to stabilize the spell. “It’s all part of the process!”

“I don’t give a damn about witches.” The voice comes out of nowhere; it’s a deep baritone with the slightest hint of an accent, and I freeze, momentarily confused. The teacup drops out of the air and clatters onto the table.

“That’s not what I said, dammit!” It’s the voice again.

“What on earth…?” blurts Margaret, jerking away from the hot contents that splatter as the cup lands.

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