Page 70 of Bewicched

The water was warmer than it should have been. I swam to Charlie and Herbert first. They were attached to piers that had been on fire. Starfish die from heat. Swirling my hands in the water, I cast a spell, cooling it. That would help, but it wasn’t enough.

I went to Herbert, as he was closest, and laid my hand on his body. He was trying to push the heat into the five star-points, away from the central disc that held his heart, stomach, and nervous system, but it was too much. This wasn’t an unseasonably hot day. This was fire.

Placing my other hand on the pier, I spelled both Herbert and the wooden pole, siphoning the heat through me and then out into the ocean. The water around us continued to drop in temperature. It looked like Dad was still lending a hand.

Once Herbert seemed to be doing better, I swam to Charlie. His normally bright orange body was looking decidedly pale and dull. The colder water was helping, but he was in extreme distress. Like with Herbert, I pulled the heat from him and the post, experiencing a flash of heat before releasing it into the cold water.

There was movement above me, but I ignored it. Charlie needed my full attention. Once I felt his system was evening out, I went in search of Cecil and his friend. Did I need air? Sure. It would have alleviated this pounding headache, but it wasn’t necessary. The ocean wouldn’t kill me.

I swam under the cannery, looking for my octopus friends. I didn’t see them, which was good. Unlike the starfish, they were mobile and hopefully got away before the ocean started heating up and fiery boards started raining down.

After checking on Charlie and Herbert once more—still recovering—I surfaced, filling my lungs and clearing my head.

“Holy crap!” Sam shouted. “I was holding my breath while you were down there. Not realizing it. Just doing that weird sympathetic thing and Clive had to shake me when I started to pass out.” She went to the edge of the water and gave me a hand, pulling me up the rocks. She was ridiculously strong.

I surveyed the blistered paint on the back wall of my gallery, the remnants of the charred deck, and then noticed Declan in the water. He was fishing out the burned boards, tossing them to Clive, who moved easily from post to post before throwing the boards on the grassy area beside the gallery. They were cleaning the ocean, and it eased some of the pain I was feeling.

“Deck again,” I murmured.

Sam dropped my jacket onto my shoulders, and I tucked my arms in and wrapped it around myself. “What about the deck?” she asked.

I’d forgotten how good everyone’s hearing was. Even with the roaring of the surf and the wind, she’d heard me mumble. “When Declan was tearing out the old deck, he found a fetish.”

Sam’s face was screwed up in confusion. “Some kind of sex toy? I don’t understand.”

Clive laughed as he leapt to another post. “Wrong usage, darling. She’s referring to an object imbued with magical powers.”

“Exactly,” I agreed. “In this case, a curse created to push me out of my home, to make me want to go away.”

“This was arson,” Sam informed me. “They smelled gasoline when they got here.”

Someone tried to burn down my beautiful gem on the water. My stomach twisted in knots. “I’m surprised the windows didn’t blow out,” I mused.

Clive threw more boards onto the ground beside Sam and me. “Had the wave not hit when it did, they probably would have.”

“Is it safe for her to sleep here tonight? Is the building itself okay?” Sam turned to me, “We can take you wherever you want to go.”

Oh, shit! I ran back toward the front of the building, fishing my keys out of my wet pocket. The gallery and my studio were probably under water. The fire outside had no doubt tripped the sprinkler system inside.

I flung open the front door, expecting the worst, and then stopped, confused. Everything looked as it had and was dry. On one hand, great, but on the other, what the hell? It was a newly installed system. Why didn’t it work?

The smell of smoke was horrible in here, but the alarms hadn’t been tripped. I ran over to the windows, wanting to throw them open and get fresh air. I touched the lock and drew my hand back with a hiss of pain. It was scalding metal. Sam tucked her hand into the sleeve of her coat and then started opening windows to air out the gallery while I went into the studio.

Again, dry. I looked up at the high ceiling and stared at the useless sprinklers. The smoke started me coughing. Sam jogged in and went to the back door, opening it. Clive was suddenly there, balancing on the edge of the doorsill, most of his body over the open water. He gave her a kiss and she stepped back, letting him in.

Clive looked up at the sprinklers, just as I had. “Malfunction,” he asked, “or spelled not to turn on?”

I trusted my contractor. Phil would have double and triple-checked the system. We knew we had a sorcerer, so spelling my alarms and sprinkler, hoping to burn down the whole cannery, was the most logical answer.

I was about to flop into my chair when Sam shouted, “Stop!”

I caught myself and spun, readying a spell.

“Sorry. No threat,” she said. “It’s just that you’re sopping wet. I assumed you might not want to sit in your chair like that.”

I shook my head, feeling like an idiot. “I don’t. Thanks.”

“Maybe you should go take a hot shower and get cleaned up. We’ll mop the floors while you’re gone,” she volunteered.

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