Page 13 of Jayce

I still need to pee, but the toilet is the least of my concerns.

Forty-five minutes later, I race past Willow after she opens her front door, searching for a place to empty my screaming bladder.

I’m not the only one who needed relief. Priscilla went in after me while Jayce and Anjal found a tree outside.

“Sit and eat something first. You look awful,” Willow insists. She ushers us to a table adorned with a feast fit for a celebration instead of the doom resting on our shoulders.

As I am starving, the spread before me elicits a growl from my stomach.

A platter of steaming spaghetti and succulent meatballs takes center stage. The savory aroma of rich tomato sauce and fragrant herbs wafts through the air.

Nestled alongside the main course, a colorful salad glistens with crisp greens, ripe cherry tomatoes, and other vegetables, drizzled with a vinaigrette that promises to taste refreshing.

Freshly baked garlic bread, golden and aromatic, rests in a woven basket. The warm, buttery scent beckons me to grab a slice.

The perfect sweet finale is a tray of decadent brownies. If only they were medicinal brownies. I really could use one right now.

No one argues or reminds her of the urgency we’re all feeling as we take a seat with her and her husband, Julian Reed. On another occasion, I’d love to swap stories with him. He’s traveled the world taking pictures for National Geographic.

A fog surrounds my head as Jayce and Anjal make small talk with Willow and Julian over dinner.

While everything looks heavenly, I barely taste any of it.

Once our bellies are full, Willow leads us to another room at the back of the house. A room dedicated solely to the art of her craft. When I cross the threshold, a sense of mystery envelops me. The writer in me is taking notes, despite the stress I’m under.

My pelvic floor is surely angry and will need extra care once I finally crawl into a bed.

Every corner of the room holds an aura of ancient magic. It’s dimly lit by flickering candlelight, casting dancing shadows upon the walls decorated with intricate tapestries covered in symbols.

The air is heavy with the scent of exotic herbs and incense. In the center of the room stands a sturdy oak table. Its surface holds an array of tools essential for casting spells.

Shelves line the walls, laden with jars and vials containing herbs and potions.

Nearby, a bookshelf groans under the weight of leather-bound spell books, inscribed with cryptic runes, holding the secrets of centuries-old spells and histories.

The spell room is a place of mystery and wonder, where the boundaries between the mundane and the mystical blur. The feeling that anything is possible with the whisper of an incantation overwhelms me.

If I were writing a protection spell, I’d have put my characters in a casting circle to contain the energies raised during the spell to ensure any negative influences couldn’t get in, but Willow did nothing like that.

She didn’t light black and white candles or pull out a crystal ball.

Willow lays out four leather necklaces with four round charms on the table. I look closer at the lines running across the pieces of jewelry.

“The labyrinth is one symbol for protection. It seems the most fitting. Don’t you think?” she explains.

“Shay and Priscilla, I’ll need drops of your blood if we’re protecting you against someone who shares your blood.”

I toss my arm out, as if I’m about to donate blood at the blood bank. Willow grabs my hand and pulls it closer for examination.

“Where did you get this?” she asks while staring at my heart-shaped birthmark.

“It’s just a birthmark.” I rub my thumb over it as I’ve done a million times.

She shakes her head vehemently. “No, it’s not.” Willow turns to Priscilla. “Do you have one too?”

“On my ankle.” She holds her leg up and shows Willow.

“Those are protection runes made to look like birthmarks. Who would do such a thing to a baby? It would have hurt like hell.”

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