Page 22 of Wicche Hunt

Even if I was wrong, he was doing things to keep himself safer, which was good. As Mom and Gran were still in the kitchen, I pulled the borrowed grimoire from my backpack and started leafing through it. I read over the marked spell Dave had recommended. It was simple enough and I’d never had trouble memorizing spells. I didn’t think I’d ever use it, though. It felt evil.

There were a lot of spells I knew, some familiar with alterations. Most grimoires were specific to a family, the spells recorded the way that family performed the spell. I loved studying other grimoires because it highlighted how varied our magic was, how personal. There wasn’t one specific way to access and use magic.

Near the end, I found a spell for finding something important. Mom, Gran, and I had already performed countless spells, trying to find where Calliope had hidden herself. This one was new, though.

“What’s that you have?” Gran asked.

“Sam loaned me a grimoire that has a very creepy spell for sending someone to Hell. She wanted me to see it, since we’re dealing with sorcery.”

Brow furrowed, Gran leaned on the back of my chair. “Let me see it.”

I flipped back and showed her. Her gaze slid across the page. Patting my shoulder, she said, “It’s dark but not black magic. If it keeps you safe, use it.”

She sat on the couch and I put the grimoire away. I heard voices in the entry. There was no time to try the finding spell now, but I’d try later when I had the time and quiet to practice.

More voices were added to the ones I’d heard. Too many people were coming today, some of whom I didn’t know, or at least remember. Mom and Gran knew them all, though. They greeted everyone by name, asked after the particulars in their lives, and then gave them the chance to request our aid. Mom and Gran were benevolent queens. I was the idiot to the side, taking notes. The petitioners glanced at me warily while explaining their marriage difficulties, their business troubles, their errant children and infuriating neighbors to Mom and Gran.

I wrote it all down, adding a score to their request, with a bulleted list explaining why I’d given them that score.

I scored the one who wanted us to help his failing online investment banking business a one. He was gambling away his profits and trying to hide that from his long-suffering wife, who was sitting beside him. She was the Corey. He’d married into the family because he’d seen dollar signs. He possessed weak magic, relying on his wife to do the heavy lifting, so to speak.

How did I know all of this when I hadn’t touched him? I hadn’t put my shields back up after the vision. I could have, but I was feeling pretty shitty about myself and so left myself wide open to it all, taking the emotional battery. I think Mom, Gran, and I were still connected, which heightened my abilities as well.

My head was killing me and I was trying to will my stomach not to rebel, but I did my job, listening, taking notes, and adding insights.

When a woman embarrassedly asked for our help with her marriage, I wanted to pull her aside and tell her he’d been cheating since the beginning. He was trash and she needed to leave him, to lock him out of her accounts and leave him. Thankfully, I didn’t have to. Apparently, Gran and Mom knew about the cheating as well.

Mom advised her to divorce him, to show some self-respect and kick him out. It was harsh, but it felt like she’d needed the kick to the teeth to get her moving. California was a no-fault, community property state, Mom told her, so there may not be much she could do about the money, but that house was paid for with her Corey inheritance and the children shouldn’t suffer by losing their home because he was a cruel bastard. Gran even offered to visit to make sure he and his belongings were out by the end of the day. When the woman got shakily to her feet, she stood a little taller, resolved. She’d had enough.

By the time we’d seen everyone, Mom had a series of people scheduled to sit with Hester, and I too had had enough. What I wanted to do was crawl into my bed, close the shutters, turn off the lights, and try to sleep away the pounding headache and nausea. Instead, what I would do was visit Hester and pass on her message from Pearl.

Wait. “That was the connection,” I blurted, confusing Gran and Mom, who were picking up their teacups and placing them on the cart.

“What connection?” Mom asked.

“The man thrown down the staircase. It felt familiar but not. I think it’s connected to Pearl’s killer.”

Gran sank back down onto the couch while Mom just stared, waiting.

“I need to talk with Detective Hernández. I think it’s the same killer.”

“What about that poor man who was pushed off the cliff?” Gran asked.

I thought about it, staring out the front window at the ocean. “It’s not the same energy, but it does feel connected. I don’t know. My head is killing me. I’ll try later after the pounding has stopped. I’ll call the detective, though, on the way to Aunt Hester’s to give her a heads-up.”

“Okay. Mother, I’ll get your bag. Are you ready?”

Gran nodded but didn’t move. I understood. It had been an exhausting day and it wasn’t over yet.

After I returned the tea cart to the kitchen, I grabbed my backpack and waited on the front porch, sitting on the stairs. Mom wanted to send an email to the family, warning them to strengthen their wards and change their passwords. I, however, needed ocean winds to blow the pain away. Oh! The honey bear seawater. I’d forgotten.

Digging into my backpack, I pulled it out, squeezed some onto both gloves, and then placed one hand on my forehead and one on the back of my skull. It was almost immediate, the lessening of the pain.Thanks, Dad.And, yes, I had fresh gloves to put on.

“Why on earth are you carrying around a honey bottle?” Mom’s voice startled me out of my stupor. She and Gran were standing behind me, wearing expressions somewhere between confusion and concern.

“Oh,” I said, twisting the top closed and returning it to my backpack. “It’s just an empty container that’s light and handy. The important part is the ocean water inside. My head was killing me, and I felt like I was going to hurl—”

“Arwyn, really,” Mom corrected.

---