Page 43 of Boss Witch

“Go ahead.”

“How far are you prepared to go? Is there a line you won’t cross?”

She closed her eyes, knowing what Ethel was truly asking. “I don’t want to hurt him. Hell, I don’t even want him to leave, not anymore, but he must. For the coven to be safe.”

With a nod, Ethel seemed to process that and file it away for future analysis. “Have you read through my mother’s notes yet?”

Clem shook her head. “Not entirely. It would help if I knew the dates. There are so many journals…”

“You must’ve expected that when you carted off a whole bunch,” Ethel said tartly. “Writing longhand in journals was the blogging of the thirties.”

Clem grinned at that. “Fair enough. But you promised both sympathy and advice, and so far, I’ve seen neither.”

“Fine.” The older witch crossed the room and perched beside her, encircling her shoulders with a gentle arm. “We’ve all done things we know are unwise. You’re not the first, and you haven’t shared anything that shocked me.”

“Now that’s a good effort.” Clem leaned into the hug.

Since her family dynamics were profoundly fucked up, she found it easier to accept comfort from someone unrelated to the whole mess, easier to let her guard down too because she knew Ethel wouldn’t use her vulnerability as ammunition in some private war.

“It’s not my first time. As to the practical advice, that is a little more difficult.”

“It’s a hard-­knock life,” said Percy.

Clem sighed. “You got that right.”

“Give me a few. I’ll do a little scrying and see if the dead have any suggestions.”

A shiver ran down Clem’s spine. No matter how often she saw Ethel thread the needle and whisper across the veil, it always creeped her out. Even for a witch, there were some boundaries that weren’t meant to be crossed.

But since this was so important, she got to her feet. “Are your supplies in the same place? I’ll help you set up.”

“Of course. I’m too lazy to reorganize.”

“Then I’ll fetch everything and back you up.” Clem headed to the crafting room that was bright explosion of fabrics, spell components, half-­made jewelry, and charms in progress.

Ethel brought out her copper scrying bowl and said, “Let’s discover what the spirits have to say about you and that handsome witch hunter.”

She settled across the table from the older witch and lit the candles. Since this wasn’t her first time, she borrowed Ethel’s athame and used it to inscribe protective sigils around the casting circle, and then she sat quietly feeding Ethel energy through the flickering flames. More than most witches, Clem tended to use the candles as a focus.

Slowly, the room built up a soft charge, and the water in the bowl roiled, but instead of producing a vision, milky shapes appeared in the liquid, rising from the tureen in smoky wisps that chilled the air around them. Gooseflesh rose on Clem’s arms.Hell, I hate being surrounded by spirits.This wasn’t something Ethel did lightly, and Clem made sure not to look directly at the spirits because sometimes they took offense to it, as they didn’t look as they had in life.

“We seek to divert a hunter from his course. Can you offer aid or guidance?” Ethel asked.

Sibilant whispers hissed all around them, and Clem experienced an icy shock on the nape of her neck. Hunching her shoulders, she clung to her courage, knowing how dangerous it was to break the circle. Finally, the disparate murmurs resolved into an intelligible response.

“There is a lost spell. One may find it to buy enough time to save you. But what must be,willbe. Only love can turn the blade aside.”

***

With every breath, Gavin hated this obligation more.

He was crouched in a cornfield in the middle of the night, watching Dale the Prepper enact an incredibly baffling ritual. The man had been running laps outside his house since the sun went down, dodging through a makeshift obstacle course built of rusty barrels, scaffolding, barricade signs, netting and rope, and a lot of metal tubing.

Is this what Mina meant when she mentioned the man’s strange construction project?

It was hot as the fires of hell crouched in the ripening rows of corn. The wind whistled through the field, carrying a dusty tang that filled his mouth with grit, and sweat rolled down his back. So far, Dale hadn’t done anything that suggested magic, but he could see why Leonard had called this bastard weird.

Once he finished his extended workout, Dale was shouting at the top of his lungs—­in no language that Gavin had ever heard. To the outsider, it might even seem like the man was possessed. Honestly, it was a wonder no Catholic priests had come to try their luck.

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