38 Birdie
BIRDIE
Okay . . . no, this is fine. The world’s moodiest and most attractive man thinks he’s a witch.
We all need a hobby, right? I’m a runner and I like to bake.
Some people like to dance around a gymnasium with a fake horse head between their legs.
Others craft taxidermized mice onto stripper poles. The point is, it’s not hurting anyone.
So, Jasper has a hobby too? That’s totally rational and very fine. You won’t see me judging.
Sighing, he shakes his head. “Fuck’s sake, say something, Birdie.”
“It’s fine.”
“I’m a witch,” he says again.
“Yep. Heard you the first time. And it’s totally—”
“Fine?” he finishes for me. “You don’t believe me, do you?”
Choosing the high road, I offer him a placating smile. “I believe that you believe—”
“Don’t.” Crossing his arms, he stares me down, keeping his voice low.
“Don’t patronize me and don’t try to rationalize this.
I’m not saying I’m a witch in the casual sense here.
This isn’t just a lifestyle choice or a set of faith beliefs.
I am a real witch. A magical being. Mortal, like you, but not human. ”
Heart racing, I glance around this open field.
I suppose Jasper thinking he’s a witch was never outside the realm of possible.
He runs an occult shop. And I was totally on board when I thought it was just tarot reading and tasseomancy, maybe some crystals for healing energy.
But he just used the words “magical being.” Does he think he’s some kind of warlock?
A spellcasting, nose-twitching magician?
“Okay,” I say on another breath. “You’re really a witch?”
“Yes.”
“Prove it then.”
“I can’t.”
Of course, he can’t. “Let me guess . . . we need to wait for a full moon or something? You don’t have your wand? Left your magic dust in your other pants—”
He points to the sky. “I can’t because the ravens are still watching, and I’m meant to be dead.”
I glance sharply up. Those two black specks are still circling high in the air. “What are they?”
“Eyes.”
“Eyes? What, like someone is watching us right now? Like magical drones?”
“Exactly like magical drones. The witch who runs the Raven Hill Group is named Ludmilla. She’s been watching me since Homewood was rediscovered, having me followed, just waiting to see if I would try and stop Howe. I got too close for her comfort, and she had to stop me. Last night, she tried.”
My breath catches. “Wait—the mugger in the alley? He really was trying to kill you?”
“Yes.”
Right. So, the guy I have the hots for thinks he’s a witch trapped in an epic battle with another witch over grimoires. Apparently, it’s a fight to the death. I don’t know much about witch battles, but it seems like the other side might be winning.
What’s crazy is that it all sort of makes sense. He’s talking about magical spy ravens, murderous witches, and hidden grimoires, and I’m just nodding along.
“Birdie, come on. Say something.”
“I’m just . . . processing.”
“I know.”
“This is an insane amount of information to impart at the foot of your fake grave. You know that, right? Please, tell me you know that.”
“I know—”
“Stop saying you know!”
He lifts both hands, still keeping his voice low. “You just asked me to . . . but okay.”
Groaning, I drag my hands through my hair. “Fine. But I didn’t ask for this. I came out to this island looking to add some archival hours to my resumé and sell bath salts. Now you’re telling me I’ve stepped into the middle of a centuries-old witch feud. It’s a lot, you know?”
“I—” At my glare, he catches himself. “Go on. You can keep freaking out.”
This helps fill the wind in my sails. “Oh, I have not even begun to freak out. Last night, you were mugged, and we almost fucked on your counter. Today, you’re a witch and you’re saying you’re mortal but not human.
I’m not freaking out, I’m just processing.
This is me processing!” I wave a hand frantically at myself.
He nods, keeping his movements small. “Okay.”
“Once I’m done processing, I’ll take a minute to freak out. But for now, I’m really having trouble with the processing part because you’re making this all sound really rational and—” I groan, sinking into silence.
“And that’s difficult for you because believing in magic can’t be rational,” he finishes for me.
“Exactly.” My brain is officially fritzing. I feel like someone just reached into my data mainframe and tugged loose a handful of wires.
Surprising me, Jasper shrugs. “I think you’ll find the supernatural world is actually highly rational. Even magic obeys the laws of nature for the most part—”
“Wait—” I say over him, my brain still busy short-circuiting. “If you’re supposed to be dead, then why are you standing out here where the ravens can see you?”
Slipping a hand under the collar of his T-shirt, he tugs loose the thin chain around his neck, flipping a small pendant onto his chest. “This protects me from the Eyes. It shields me from all eyes, actually . . . except for those who I want to be able to see me.”
I step in closer, taking in the shape of the small evil eye pendant. I’ve seen the design before. They’re all over Europe, especially around the Mediterranean. It’s meant to be a ward against curses and bad luck. In Arabic, it’s called a nazar. In Greek, they call it a máti.
Okay, why is the pendant calming me down? People the world over have worn some version of this little blue eye for thousands of years. When you boil away the nuances of language, food, clothing, and religion, humans are all the same. We seek the same things. Family. Love. Stability. Protection.
It’s rational, my mind whispers.
Daring to reach out, I brush a finger over the eye. “This is how you’re playing dead? The charm makes you invisible?”
He nods. “The magic is flimsy, but effective enough to trick the ravens. They can’t see me as long as I keep this on. And I’m assured they can’t hear me unless they get much closer.”
I drop my hand away. “But I can see you.”
“Because I want you to see me. Birdie, I need you to see me. Not just Jasper, the purveyor of bath salts. I need you to see all of me. And we don’t have time for you to hide away and process. I know that’s unfair, and I know I’m asking a lot. But my coven is in danger. You can help us.”
“How?”
“I need you to stay on the island. Birdie, I need you to stay with me.”
Whoa, okay, pump the brakes. Stay with him? I bat his hand down and back away, heart in my throat. “I can’t stay with you. We barely know each other. Are you crazy?”
He holds out his hand again. “Just come inside with me. I promise, I’ll explain everything.”
I back away another step. “I can’t. This is too much. I—I just need a minute, okay? I can’t just not process. I have to—you have to give me more time!”
After a moment, he nods, dropping his hand to his side.
“Fine. Well, I’m going in. I’ll ask that you not leave the property.
You won’t be safe until I’ve finished briefing you.
When you’re done processing, come find me.
” Turning on his heel, he strides off, leaving me to stand at the foot of a grave marked with his name.
I watch him walk away. His strides are long, covering half the distance between here and the house in only a few steps.
He doesn’t stop. Doesn’t look back. Overhead, the ravens circle lower.
Another chill shivers down my arms at their approach, even as the sun shines above them.
Creepy, feathered freaks, I can feel their eyes on me.
There’s some malevolence to them, same as the one I found waiting on the apartment landing this morning.
He’s really just going to leave me out here to process alone while these magical ravens circle overhead? Oh, this is so fucked.
“Wait,” I call, scrambling after him. “Hey, wait!”
He pauses in the middle of the grassy field. I jog to catch up with him. He reaches out as I get close and it’s like my hand is a magnet, wrapping around his as he reels me in.
“I’m not done processing,” I say on a panting breath. “But you’ve officially ruined ravens for me too.”
We rush to get inside the house and Jasper leads the way into the kitchen. It all looks so different from this morning. All the flowers are gone. The breakfast foods too. There are stacks of dishes piled by the sink—clean to the left, dirty to the right. The sink is full of soapy water.
I glance around. “What happened to your funeral flowers?”
Jasper points to the open doorway off to the right.
I peek into the front sitting room and find every surface is covered with vases of flowers—lush red roses, sunny daffodils, bunches of white daisies. I lean against the doorway, mind still racing. “Mercy was at your fake funeral this morning.”
“Yes.” He stands by the kitchen island, arms crossed, making no attempt to approach me.
“Ezra says she’s a Dent?”
He nods.
“She’s a witch too then?”
“Yes.”
“And Ruby is her cousin . . . she still bears the Dent name. Hortie too, obviously. She’s a Hastings. She told me herself that her family line traces directly back to Sybil.”
“Obviously,” he echoes.
Hortense Hastings is a real witch. A magical being, Jasper said. Mortal but not human. Ruby Dent, Mercy Bartlett. I turn against the doorframe, arms crossed to match his pose. “That big woman. The judgy, mean one. She has to be part of this too.”
He smirks. “Frankie Poole and her mother Alora are descendants of Alice Dent too. You haven’t met Ada Clarke and her son Jonah. They’re distant cousins of Hortie’s.”
“And you and Phoebe are Prescotts,” I finish.
He nods again. “The last of our line.”
I’ll admit, the truth about Phoebe hurts.
I thought we were friends. I mean, we are friends.
But she knew about all of this. She knew what I was walking into, and she didn’t think to warn me.
Or maybe she did with her little questions about witchcraft and Buffy.
But if that was her laying hints for me, she’s terrible at it. Consider me officially not forewarned.
She must not have trusted me, which hurts too.