Page 30 of Big Little Spells

For a moment, all I can do is look at them as I realize, with a jolt inside me, that no one in the past ten years has meant as much to me as these three people. I don’t let people in out there. Because how could I? That’s the nature of exile, particularly from a place that’s not supposed to exist. Not in all its true magical glory.

I actually feel a little teary again, and am glad no one is paying attention.

“We’re all ready and on time,” Emerson is saying. “What modern miracle this is?”

“I was going to say the modern miracle was you and Jacob going to Nix,” Ellowyn replies with a teasing grin.

“Weird, I thought it was you going to Nix,” Georgie chimes in, far too innocently to be believed. Ellowyn glares at her, but there’s no heat in it.

Emerson beams at me. And she doesn’t say it out loud, but I hear it all the same.

Rebekah is our miracle.

I most certainly am not. I’m only here because of vengeful witches and petty politics, but this night is about Emerson and Jacob. I am determined for it be about them. So I don’t argue. I smile.

Emerson holds out her hand. Ellowyn takes it with no hesitation, and Georgie comes over and joins our little circle. I have no choice but to take Emerson’s hand, then Ellowyn’s.

I try to do it grudgingly, and Ellowyn’s eyes gleam. Either the other two don’t notice or, more likely, expect shenanigans from me and are ignoring them.

I feel simultaneously condescended to and comforted by that.

Emerson beams at us, all around our little circle. “We are four kick-ass women,” she says, as if she’s pressing those words into us like spells. Like charms. “And we are going to save St. Cyprian and witchkind as many times as it takes.”

I don’t want to think about fighting or saving anything. “Yes, yes, saving the world and all the witches by going back to high school,” I say, squeezing Emerson’s hand. “But that was last night. Tonight we’re going to be women before witches. We’re going to have a few too many drinks, have some fun, and laugh ourselves silly.”

Emerson and Georgie share a glance I can only call worried, while Ellowyn laughs and presses her shoulder to mine.

And for this moment, in the bright light of the kitchen where all four of us once stood a million years ago in our bright white Beltane dresses, vowing to be better dates for each other to our witchy version of prom than any dumb boys could ever be—before said dates turned up, one of them evil, and there was a chinchilla incident I only talk about over tequila—everything is perfect.

Everything is right.

Or maybe it’s that I am, because I’m here, with them again.

Where I belong.

We decide to walk down to Nix instead of fly. Though the air is cold once the sun is down, we keep each other warm with jokes and linked arms. It is like old times, but not. Because while I am filled with all sorts of feelings, it doesn’t weigh as heavy as my teenage angst did. I remember the things I felt sitting on me like steel plates back then.

Maybe it’s all the recovery work I’ve done. The time away to figure out who I am and what I really feel without all the St. Cyprian complications like family, friends, and three hundred plus years of witchery—whether I chose that time away or not. Then again, maybe it’s simply that the longer you live, the better your armor gets. Whatever it is, I like it.

Toting steel plates around all the time is exhausting.

Once at the ferry parking lot, instead of waiting to board the ferry I can see making its way toward the dock through the dark water, we cut off to the side and follow the curving, poorly lit path that brings us closer and closer to the river. Until, just when you begin to think you might be about to go swimming, the bar comes into view. It’s a squat but long blue building, the patio lit up with twinkle lights—though there aren’t that many people out there tonight in the spring chill. In the summer, the entire place will be packed, inside and out. Music bumping, fans twirling up above, and minors only allowed until nine.

The sign out front reads Nix: On the Mississippi...and Sometimes in It.

Because you can’t be a river town and not have some sense of humor about flooding, however black. There’s also a tall pole out back, sunk into the river, that marks the river’s water levels over the years. It’s strange to see physical proof of what we did last night. The river is clearly much lower than it has been recently.

We file inside to the smell of yeast and an alarming amount of mixing perfumes, like too many potions gone awry. Zander and Jacob are already there, and Zander waves us over to the corner booth they’ve claimed. Emerson slides in next to Jacob and he drapes his arm over her shoulders, tugging her closer. Ellowyn crowds into the far corner of the other side and I press against her, so Georgie can squeeze in beside me. Zander pulls over a chair, and I share an eye roll with Ellowyn when he flips it around and sits on it backward.

For a moment, no one speaks. We’re all here. Just like high school, when Uncle Zack would have been behind the bar and ready to kick us out at nine o’clock on the dot, because that’s when the mysterious adult things happened.

But we’re the adults now.

“I got us a round of beer,” Zander offers, nodding toward the pitcher in the center of the booth’s table and pint glasses stacked next to it. “Get the ball rolling for our little welcome home.” He reaches over Georgie to give my shoulder a light punch, an old, affectionate gesture I don’t realize I’ve missed until this very moment.

“But that’s not all,” I say, giving Emerson a look. She hesitates for a moment. Never let it be said Emerson might be accused of stealing my thunder.

But I don’t want any thunder. Not tonight. I want to immerse myself in this evening. Soak it in. Marinate in the joy that I am here. With my people. And ignore the pending problems ahead.

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