Chapter 29
Chapter Twenty-Nine
I Step to the office and frantically wave my hand to fan my fiery face.
Whoa, the look in his eyes when he undid his belt…
I dreamily sag against the desk and swallow the copious amount of spit in my mouth.
That was hot. So hot. The urge to go back and help him take off the rest of his clothes is huge.
I want to snuggle with the hellhound.
I groan and look up at the ceiling for divine intervention.
Fate only knows I need help. Loved up, I might be, but I am annoyingly cautious.
Stepping away from him—I shake my head—is a moment in my life that I will no doubt regret.
Forever. On my deathbed, I will tell anyone who will listen, “I should have banged the hot hellhound when I was in my twenties.” I snort and groan again.
No. I know I am impaired with this magic battering at me.
I cannot think straight. My head is full to bursting with everything that has happened these last few days.
It has been nuts, and here I am, throwing a new relationship into the mix.
There is no way, no way, I can nap with Owen.
It is unfair to him, and I can’t do anything naughty until I sort my head out. I roll my eyes and rub my face.
Okay. I clap my hands like Larry does. I want to see if I can figure out a permanent portal to the real world.
If anything happens to me, people in this dimension need to be able to leave.
I have been reprimanded already by Mum for not having an adequate emergency plan in place, so an emergency exit is a priority.
Jodie also wants me to make her mini pocket dimensions.
I know she only mentioned it in passing, but it would be lovely to give something back.
She is always helping me, so I might as well work on that.
I mean, how hard can it be? Nyssa makes them…
I can Step. I should be able to stuff some magic into an object and make it its own dimension. No biggie. I slump against the desk.
I sign and grab the datapad that was once that giant, dusty book and do a quick search and… there is nothing. Nothing.
Great.
I throw my hands in the air and push the datapad away. What is the point of this thing if it doesn’t work? I will have to do this the old-fashioned way, by trial and error. Yeah, I am going to wing it. Magic on a wing and a prayer. What can go wrong?
I need to keep listening to my magic. Trust myself. I didn’t know how to heal, I didn’t have a bloody clue and yet, I did it. I saved three people. Three. With no training. That is amazing. If I take the time to listen, the magic tells me clearly what I need to do to get it to work.
I tug at my dress. First, an outfit change. With just a thought, my clothes change from the navy dress into a comfortable, soft-knit jumper and jeans. I roll up my sleeves and I open a portal to Jodie’s shop.
I wander into the stockroom. Behind me, I keep the portal open; I have no idea if I can re-open it. Shit. I huff out a self-deprecating laugh. I would look like a proper idiot if I couldn’t get back in.
The room is stuffed to the brim with witch paraphernalia—all things recognisable from my childhood. Instead of happy memories, the sight invokes a sickly sense of fear.
Everything in here has a terrible memory attached to it. I dig my nails into my palms to stop myself from being unwillingly dragged into a nasty memory. I do a full-body shudder to shake the feeling off as I push the thoughts away.
I scan the shelves and find what I need, which is a plain black drawstring bag with the shop logo. Ah, it is perfect.
I grab it, slip back through the portal to my office, and throw myself into the chair. How the heck am I going to do this? I turn my full attention to the cloth bag in my now sweaty hand.
Okay. I wipe my hands on my jeans. What do I need it to do? The bag needs to expand to store things, so the person using it can put things into the dimensional space and, with just a thought, bring them back out again when needed.
The weight cannot change, and the shape of the bag in the real world can’t change either. I puff out my cheeks. No biggie. My leg bounces and my hand trembles as I fiddle with the bag’s string. What if I mess up?
Oh no. I really don’t want to blow up the cotton bag, myself, or the realm. I drop the bag and lean away.
Whoa, Tuesday, don’t freak out. You improvised an entire realm. I think you can deal with one small cloth bag. “I just need to have a good imagination, that’s all,” I mumble. “Oh, and completely ignore physics.” My other leg jiggles.
Stop it.
I have all this negativity swimming around in my head. I flick the bag. I cannot let my past magical prejudice interfere with what is happening to me now.
I can’t let my old fears impede this strange new version of myself.
But it is so bloody hard.
I blow out a breath and twist my fingers. I have been doing some snazzy things, impossible things. I don’t think what I can do has really sunk in. Snapping magic out on the fly with all the crazy life and death pressure. It is okay and perfectly natural to be a little nervous.
Okay, back to the pocket dimension and basic rules: living creatures are not allowed inside.
I give the bag a poke. I know it is only a bag, but it could be the width of some kid’s shoulders.
I can’t be responsible for asphyxiating some poor sod.
I don’t mind people stuffing their limbs in.
That’s understandable. But not an entire air-breathing person.
I nibble on my thumbnail. Size… the size inside. Does it need to hold stuff like an immense bag? Or does it need to hold the contents of a house? I tug the bag open and stare inside. It can only fit things under about ten inches wide, so there is no way anything big like a sofa will fit.
My mind immediately goes to Mum’s magic bag.
She lugs that thing everywhere. I click my fingers.
Magical wardrobe. No, that’s not right. My heart jumps with excitement and my eyes widen.
A stockroom. A grin tugs at my lips. So, a magical stockroom, a pocket dimension roughly four-foot-square, should do it.
Once I get to grips with this, I will have to make Mum a replacement bag, or add a dimension to her existing one. If she will let me.
Okay. I narrow my eyes. The top of the bag will act as a mini portal, and the items will be stored inside the storeroom.
What if items are small or super big? I don’t want to put a limit on the pocket dimensions usage.
So, I won’t. I don’t need to design things like shelves.
Instead, why can’t the person using it make it how they want?
Self-designing. Oooh. I explore the idea of adding a choice.
Once the owner bonds with the bag, their intent can shape the room within the original footprint and design rules. Oh my gosh, that is so cool.
To bond, the owner will need a drop of blood, and if anything happens to them, a simple incantation, like a pin code, will re-set the bag.
I nod. Yeah, that will work. I blow out a breath.
No pressure.
Sweat tickles my neck. I feel like I’m disarming a bomb.
Small beads of sweat dot my upper lip. I use my sleeve to wipe them away.
It’s okay, Tuesday, you can do this. I press my jiggling legs into the chair to keep them still as I concentrate.
I stare at the cloth and unfocus my eyes.
I see the little filaments of realm magic float around in the air like energised dust motes.
As they drift around me, I allow myself to zone out and drift with them.
It’s as if I am not in control of myself, but a higher power is helping me, guiding me. My pounding heart settles into a steady rhythm, along with my breaths. I am in a weird, magical zone where nothing exists but the magic. I do what I have done for years. I first build the storeroom in my head.
When I am ready, I go with my gut and pull the magical dust towards me and the bag.
I feed the magic, both my magic and the dust, into the black fibres with the intent to allow the space I am creating to be flexible.
But also strong enough to hold the walls of dimensional space.
When I feel like it is working, I expand the walls, making them wider, bigger, and stronger.
I set my rules into the magic, layer by layer.
When I think I have finished, I test everything.
then come back to myself with a sigh and flop back in the chair with a satisfied hum.
Phew, it’s good. I did it. I eye the bag and let out a huff of surprise. I bloody did it. I squeal and do a little wiggle. The chair squeaks, and I do a full bum dance on the seat. I did it!
I carefully fold the bag and stuff it into my back pocket. I will give it to Jodie later and let her test it out to see what she thinks. I am sure my smart sister will have ideas on how to improve my design.
In the hallway outside my office, but closer to reception, I add a random door so I can use it to make a fixed portal gateway. I’ve seen these in a few posh houses—a portal room. Using the doorway as a guide, I open a new portal, this time to the inside of Jodie’s stockroom.
I search the shelves and grab a finger prick lancet. I twist the top to break the seal and hold the plastic lancet with trepidation over my poor, innocent index finger.
“It’s like a hole punch,” I whisper. “A teeny tiny skin hole punch.” I roll my eyes. Yep, that makes me feel so much better. Not.
A hole punch. Bloody hell, Tuesday. A hole punch? Really? Now all I can see and hear in my head is the crunch of the round metal prongs cutting through the paper and leaving those perfectly cut, large circle holes behind.
I gnaw on my lip and, with a gasp and a full-body cringe, I press the lancet down. A teeny tiny bit of pain derives from my finger. That’s it.