Page 17 of Curses and Cauldrons

“Fine. Keep your secrets. Are we going to binge some reality TV and eat junk food now?” Pen asks brightly, reminding me why I love her so much. She’ll let it go for now, but I know she’ll try to pry the information out of me later.

“I’ve already got the snacks.”

9

JOSEPHINE

“Mrs. Vonnert-Kippling told me how rude you were at the party. Completely unacceptable. And you were speaking with a Blackthorn, of all people. A Blackthorn. I don’t need to remind you of how tainted their magic is. Tenebris scum.” My mother glares at me over the top of her computer. I’m standing in her office on Monday morning, wishing I were anywhere else.

I should have stayed in bed today.

The Delvaux family owns the Serenity Spa, which specializes in healing massage. The healing part is all me. My mother runs the office and financial portion of the business. My sister Camille does something in the office that is nebulous and called customer relations. My father doesn’t deign to step foot in the shop.

There are other employees who work here. Most are part of the Lumen coven, and some have a fragment of healing magic. We do have one human masseuse who is amazingly oblivious to anything supernatural, but that’s how many humans are. If it’soutside their realm of belief, they figure out another reason why customers walk in ill and exit healthier and full of vitality.

After Saturday night, when Roman, among other things, touched me, I felt incredible. The glow has slowly been dimming since then. My trip with Pen to the hospital yesterday sapped me of energy, but my mother has nudged, poked, and brushed against me at every opportunity this morning. It’s left me depleted before the first customer has come in. It’s almost as if feeling better for that one night has made me realize how horrible I feel all the time. Now I’m even more exhausted.

“You look like you rolled out of a dumpster. Here.” My mother slides a cup of coffee in my direction. It’s the one kind thing she does for me every day: getting me my morning cup of coffee. Granted, it comes with a laundry list of all the things I’m doing wrong. Still, I haven’t been able to give up hope that there’s some small part of her that cares for me. She just doesn’t know how to voice it.

I take a sip of the bitter brew and hide my wince. It’s lukewarm. I funnel heat through my hands with my magic and warm it up. I’m not great with elemental magic, but I can do small bits and pieces with it.

“I have a meeting tonight, so I need you to go to Woodroot’s and get these supplies for me.” She tosses a piece of paper in my direction. It floats but doesn’t go far because it’s…well, paper. Moving much closer to my mother than I’d like, I lean across the desk and pick up the note. It’s a list of potion supplies. My mother has sent me out for similar items before, but she typically prefers to do the work herself.

I mentally sort through my schedule for the day. My mother should know better. She likes to book me back-to-back clients. She knows my tipping point into exhaustion so she can maximize how many massages I can do in a day without crumbling into a useless heap.

“I’m booked until six–”

“Then go after your last appointment.” My mother’s eyes are focused on her phone. Her lip curls in a snarl as she types furiously. Before she drags her attention away from whoever she’s texting, I agree and slip out of her office.

On the plus side, I’m so busy that I barely see my mother for the rest of the day. The negative? I’m exhausted by the time my last client leaves the spa. My mother took off in the early afternoon, and my sister never came to work today, which isn’t unusual. I’m left to lock up and close things down by myself.

As tired as I am, I’m tempted to take my car to Woodroot’s Apothecary. It’s only a few blocks away, though, and I can’t rationalize driving. The sun set nearly an hour ago, and the wind has picked up since this morning. I zip up my coat and sink my chin down into the collar as I head out on my assigned task.

It’s a short walk that should only take a few minutes, but the cold immediately saps any warmth from my aching body. It makes each step that much harder. I’m quickly shivering despite my thick coat.

Woodroot’s Apothecary sits on a small plot of land in the middle of the Briar Hollows River. Morty, the shop’s owner, calls it an island, but it’s so small I don’t know if it qualifies. Like Agatha Fitzsimons, Mortimor Woodroot is not affiliated with either of the town’s covens. The two of them are the only witches in Mystic Hollows that I know of who have managed to stay unaffiliated. For their part, the covens leave them both alone. I’ve always wondered if they have some blackmail that they hang over the heads of the councils. Wouldn’t that be nice?

Morty’s island is a neutral space, and witches from both factions are free to shop there. The only rule is that no violence can be perpetrated on the island, or you’ll be banned from the shop permanently.

A pedestrian bridge of questionable sturdiness connects the island to either side of the river. The wooden structure sways as I step onto it. I grip the railing and take my time crossing. I’m so tired that one strong swing and I’ll fall into the churning river below before my body can react.

The apothecary is lit up with a welcoming glow that makes the surrounding night that much darker. Weathered wood siding and severe sloping rooflines remind me of a medieval cottage in a fairytale. The front of the store has a massive window that offers a peek at all the oddities inside. Faint wisps of woodsmoke perfume the air. It doesn’t matter what time of year it is, Morty always has a fire going for one potion or another that he’s brewing.

A bell tinkles over the door as I push inside, sighing at the warmth. My cheeks sting from the frigid wind, and my fingers burn as they wake back up. The inside of Woodroot’s has every conceivable magical ingredient, and if he doesn’t have it on his shelves, Morty will procure it within days. The center of the shop is well-lit, but there are several dark corners that house potions and spells that lose their potency in the light.

Shelves overflow with baskets of dried flowers, animal bones, feathers from a variety of birds, river rocks, and teeth that there’s a good chance are human. Spools of thread, candles in every color, and stacks of books sit on tables scattered around the store. It’s chaos to look at, but Morty knows the location of every item in this place.

“Josephine Delvaux, did that witch of a mother send you in here to do her dirty work?” Mortimor Woodroot walks out of the back room and drums his fingers on the counter. Morty is an enigma. According to most people, he’s been around forever, but he doesn’t look much older than thirty-five. It could be a magical glamor. If anyone is capable of making one this perfect, it would be him.

His head cocks to the side, and his brow furrows when he gets a look at me. “Oh honey, did you get hit by a bus? You look dead on your feet.”

Morty and I are about the same height. His brown hair is always perfectly styled like a magazine cover model. He’s lean and wiry and wears the most outrageous suits I’ve ever seen. They match his personality. He has a slight southern accent, but I’ve never been able to connect it to a specific location. The man doesn’t have a filter and blurts out whatever comes to mind. Today he’s wearing a suit covered in purple, gold, and green sequins like he’s heading to Mardi Gras. It glints and sparkles under the golden light of the shop.

I approach the counter with a smile. Lack of verbal filter aside–or maybe because of it–I like Morty. He’s always been kind to me.

“I do have a list of things to get, yes.” I ignore his other question. I’m fully aware that my clothes are wrinkled, the bags under my eyes have started their own collection of bags, my cheeks are windburned, and my ponytail is drooping pathetically.

Morty plucks the list from my fingers without touching me. It’s customary for the families with curses to keep them unknown to the larger coven. I often wonder if my mother has told Selene, the head of our coven, but I don’t know for sure. We’re taught from early on to never speak of it to others. Of course, all my friends and I divulged those details to each other years ago. Morty shouldn’t know what my curse is, but I always get the feeling he does.

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