Page 54 of Bewicched

I just kept going, ignoring Declan’s laughter, straight into my bathroom. I lifted my foot and found my tattoo hiding on my heel. “Poor thing,” I said, rubbing it. “You tried.”

I dropped the towel and clothes, kicked them to the mat by the washing machine, and stepped into the shower. I don’t know what my mom was so worked up about. I’d talked about getting a tattoo ever since I was little.

Fae blood made me stand out as a child. It wasn’t just that my hair changed colors in salt water—which is how I knew my father must be ocean fae, rather than river or lake—it was that I had a swath of iridescent skin on my back. It ran from my right shoulder to my left hip before it swirled around my left thigh.

Mom used to buy me one-piece bathing suits with matching shorts. We thought it was concealed, but little Calliope saw. She was very sweet, wishing she had such pretty colors in her hair and on her skin. She thought I looked like a mermaid. She was a year younger and not a strong swimmer, so she stayed right by the shore. I, of course, was born to the water, but she looked so small and sad, I often sat at the edge of the waves so she’d have someone to talk to and play with.

She was only a year younger, but it felt like more. She was a chatterbox and loved having someone to talk with. She was the first one to notice the hair color issue. It wasn’t obvious. Wet hair was generally dark. Purple and green highlights are hard to notice in wet hair. She did, though, and was so excited about having a mermaid cousin, she called the others over to see.

When a particularly large wave had knocked little six-year-old me over, my shorts drifted up for a moment and she saw my skin. I’d jumped up and ran to my mom, wanting to go home, but it was too late. She’d told them and they’d all crowded around, wanting to see. The adults shooed them away, but the damage had been done. Some of my shittier cousins had spent the next ten years making my life a misery.

I studied ancient grimoires for years, trying to find a spell to make my skin look like everyone else’s. Finally, when I was fifteen, I found one that created a magical tattoo. I’d been worried I’d screw up the highly complicated spell—written in spindly, faded handwriting—and make the problem worse. I then spent weeks working on the image I wanted, perfecting, shading, painting.

When I was finally ready, I’d performed the spell while Mom was at work. I’d worried about being interrupted. I supposed I needn’t have worried so much, as I’d overshot what I’d been aiming for. Instead of the octopus I’d wanted on my back, my iridescent skin enhancing the tattoo, I’d created an animated tattoo that grew bigger and smaller and moved around my body.

When I was scared, she enveloped me, tentacles wrapping around me. Today, when I was worried my mom would see her, she made herself small and hid under my foot. I’d named her Ursula.

I felt her moving while I showered, wanting to be in the water, no doubt. She was back in her usual spot now, resting almost like a backpack with one tentacle barely reaching over my right shoulder and another running down my left hip and wrapping around my thigh. The other six swirled around me, some holding on to my waist, some just resting on my back.

I dried and dressed in another long-sleeved thermal top and overalls combo before dealing with my hair. Declan was right. It was extremely long. I’d tried cutting it numerous times over the years, but it always grew back quickly to this exact length. I didn’t know for sure but figured it was a fae thing and so stopped trying to change it. It was a shit ton of hair, though, so I went through lots of conditioning products, some for use in the shower, some leave-in.

After working product throughout my hair, I used my diffuser to start the drying process, blotting the dripping ends. A few minutes later, I used a soft terrycloth headband to keep the hair out of my face while it air dried the rest of the way. Long hair was a stupid amount of work.

As I knew I’d have to prove I had no tattoo on the bottom of my foot, I slid into flip-flops, grabbed a pair of gloves, and went downstairs, where I’d expected to find my mom drinking tea and staring at my home with a judgy expression. Instead, the joint was empty.

And then I heard raised voices out the back door.

24

Mom’s Meltdown

“…because I don’t know anything about you and I don’t like the way you look at my daughter.”

Uh-oh.

“How do I look at her?” Thank goodness Declan didn’t sound angry. I didn’t want my mom mauled this afternoon. We had stuff to figure out.

“Like you’re thinking about eating her.” Mom’s indignation was palpable. She wasn’t used to people not jumping to do her bidding.

“It sounds like I need to do a better job of schooling my features because I would enjoy eating your daughter, but probably not in the way you mean.”

I slapped a hand over my mouth. Hedid notjust say that to my mother.

“Crass. The fact remains that you’re some kind of itinerant worker and nowhere near good enough for my daughter. You see this big shiny gallery, the wealthy family, and the naïve artist who doesn’t have enough experience with men to recognize a user when she sees one.”

My mouth dropped open, anger and embarrassment making my face flame.

The deck shuddered with the intensity of his growl.Oh shit. I ran out the back door and stood between the two.

Declan grabbed me around the waist and picked me up, depositing me three feet to the right. Out of the splash zone.

Mom shook her head at me. “You barely know him and you’re trying to protect him from me?” Yeah, she was pissed all right.

“Well, I heard the tail end of that, and you were being rude. Also, I have no desire to see my mom talk herself onto the receiving end of lethal claws.”

Declan blew out a breath and moved back. “I wasn’t going to hurt her.”

“I’d like to see you try,” she snapped back.

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