Chapter 14 #2
Oh. “Thanks?” I venture, glancing around. Despite the terrible foreboding feeling soaking into my new-to-me bookstore and the cold air—that I’m not going to complain about—the ghosts aren’t doing anything. “Can they hurt us?”
The nearly empty bottle of lemon-scented wood polish soars through the air, whacking into my shoulder.
“That answers that that.”
“They must not be at full power. Yet.” Prudence’s tail tickles my nose and I swat it away, rubbing my now lemon-doused shoulder.
“I’ll take your word for it. Any ideas about how to evict them?”
“You’re the witch. Use the spellbooks Tara gave you.”
“The spellbook—” I pause, my tired, overworked brain finally kicking up something useful. “The fucking spellbook,” I repeat excitedly.
“Gods, I hope she didn’t give you a fucking spellbook. I don’t need to witness any sex magic, thank you.”
The lemon bottle rams into my shin and I kick at it, still doing my best to form at least one (1) cogent thought in the wake of Prudence’s pervy sex comment and the fact I’m being attacked by household cleaners.
It’s a bit surreal, which is why I can’t totally hold myself responsible for the choice I make next.
“Run,” I yell at Prudence, and then I’m sprinting, taking the creaky ass stairs two at a time to my apartment. A black blur at my ankles is confirmation enough that she’s listened.
The empty shelves lining the walls stretch ominously in front of me, and while the book lover in me loves the idea of shelving stretching to infinity and beyond, the woman currently trying to get away from ghosts is less amused by the weird cartoon funhouse effect.
“Fuck off, ghosts,” I screech, irate. “This is my bookstore, bitches!”
The ground slams into my feet, and then I’m in front of the door, disoriented, like I just stepped off one of those airport treadmills.
I don’t hesitate, though, ready to get the hell out of whatever the fuck is going on in here, and reach for the knob that will let us back into our apartment.
The brass doorknob is so cold to the touch that it burns the skin of my palm, and I suck in a pained breath, forcing myself to keep contact with it until it finally unlatches.
Prudence and I spill over the threshold.
I, of course, fall onto my side after pushing so hard on the damned door. Prudence leaps delicately over the salt line, which, thank heavens, is still intact across the threshold.
Something shrieks in the bookstore and I kick the door as hard as I can, sending it flying back into the jamb. Golden light pulses over the wood and I lie back, panting.
“Well, at least they waited until Colton left.”
“At least I got to see you fall down again. My day really isn’t complete until you make an ass out of yourself.”
Something about the cat’s flippant, jerkish remark tickles me, and I lie on the floor for a long while, laughing hysterically and blinking up at the ceiling.
Prudence’s paws, which seem to defy the laws of physics—seriously, how in the world do they feel so heavy when she is so light?—step all over my stomach until she finally curls up on my chest, watching me laugh-spasm.
Sucking in a shaky breath, I finally manage to calm myself, and tuck my chin in to look at the little black cat. “That was wild.”
“Welcome to the world of witchcraft,” she says.
I don’t know which of us is more surprised when she starts making biscuits on my sternum.
Tactfully, I decide not to mention it.
“So. That could have gone better,” I finally manage.
“You don’t say?” The sharp tip of her claw pricks my skin through my shirt, just enough to make me squirm.
“Listen.” I pause, trying to come up with an excuse, but I don’t have one. “I made a mistake. I should have done the magical cleaning before the physical cleaning.”
Prudence tilts her head, regarding me with those luminous eyes. “Magical cleaning. I like that name.”
My eyebrows attempt to skyrocket at the faint praise, but I keep my face caterpillars in check. I don’t want Prudence to know I’m affected by her being nice to me. She’d probably choose violence more often than kindness.
Can’t say I blame her for that, though. Maybe we should all err on the side of violence.
I clear my throat.
“I, uh, remembered something important.” I sit up gingerly, and she slides onto my crossed legs, still purring. Her cheek rubs against my knee and I squint at her, hoping she doesn’t bite me again.
Cats.
Huh. “What was I saying?” The thought is right there, on the tip of my tongue, but every time I try to put it into words… it escapes.
“You said you remembered something.”
My lips twist to the side. “I can’t…”
“Shit. You’re spelled.”
“Is that a grammar joke?” I ask, nonplussed. Damn it, why can’t I focus? Like, I know there’s something I needed to say.
What was it?
“No, you are under a spell.”
“Don’t be ridiculous.”
She bites my knee and I push her out of my lap (gently, okay? Geez, I’m not a total asshole).
“What were we talking about?”
“The spell you’re under. Good thing I am pretty sure it’s about the book you found yesterday.”
“I’m not under a spell.” Book I found yesterday? There are a lot of books in my life. In fact, I spent a nice chunk of time ordering stock while shoveling salad into my gob at lunch.
“Yep. Come here.”
“I need to get ready for dinner. I mean, I doubt I’ll ever be able to get the smell of that lemon oil out of my skin, but I can at least make sure I’m not covered in grime.”
Really, it’s incredible how quickly I’m recovering from poltergeist assault.
That’s me, the indomitable ghost-whispering witch.
“Nope. Follow me or I will bite the shit out of you.” She hisses, the fur along her spine standing on end.
“Oh, that’s nice,” I tell her, frowning, but I get up anyway.
I don’t need her nasty cat mouth infecting me. I’ve been on the internet; I’ve seen what can happen with cat bites.
Plus, I’ve seen her lick her butthole.
I don’t want none of that.
The little cat scampers to the kitchen, and I hold in a laugh as she swats at a dust mote, then grumbles and leaps onto the counter.
Next to a huge, leatherbound book.
The same one that I found yesterday and nearly completely forgot about.
“Huh,” I say, at a loss. A loss of words and brain cells, apparently.
“Exactly.” Prudence nods, or does the kitty approximation of it, which is a bizarre sight to behold. Just chock-full of bizarre things lately, my life is.
She puts her paw on it, her tail slapping the countertop furiously. “Pick it up.”
“Don’t tell me what to do,” I snap at her.
“That kind of tone isn’t like you,” she says, and I hate that she’s right.
“How do you know what is like me? You’ve only known me for one day.” Belligerent, that’s what I am. Driven to belligerence by poltergeists and talking cats.
“Because I’m your familiar, dumbass,” Prudence says.
“Who is unbecoming now?”
“You’re acting like this because you’re under a spell. Touch the damn book or I bite,” she snarls, fangs gleaming.
Dirty cat teeth are not on my desired ways to die list, so I slap my hand on the book.
Poof.
Gold sparkles explode from the cover like a cloud of magical dust and I cough, sputtering as they splash all over me.
“See? Spell’s broken.” Prudence looks smug in the way only a talking cat can look. I assume.
I wave a hand in front of my face, trying to clear the golden dust particles. Magic particles. I don’t have a clue what their actual name is. “Do you think that’s going to affect my lungs?”
“It’s magic, not asbestos.” Her voice drips with annoyance. “I’d be more concerned about your lack of balance and weak ankles if I were you.”
“That’s a low blow,” I mutter, but all that boiling resentment towards her I felt just a moment ago left me at the time of the magical not-asbestos cloud.
The honey-brown leather is soft, not at all dusty or grimy, like it should be after sitting in that bookstore for heaven only knows how long.
It’s a beautiful book, the kind that collectors would itch to have in their collections and libraries would be loath to let patrons touch. Deckled edges tickle my fingertips, and gold-embossed foil glimmers in the overhead light.
“Grimoire: East Texas Coven,” I read, tracing my forefinger along the depressed letters. My head snaps up, and I meet Prudence’s gaze. “This is a big deal,” I tell her.
“Duh,” she says. “That’s why I threatened you with violence. It’s unlike me to be so cruel, but sometimes threat of a serious blood infection is what it takes, you know?”
I snort, shaking my head, and open up the book. “Why would I have been spelled to forget?”
“I have a theory. Several.”
“Share with the class,” I tell her, gaze drinking in the pretty watercolor endpapers. Whoever made this book captured the town in loving brushstrokes that seem to blow across the page. “Holy shit,” I say, eyes wide.
They are literally blowing across the page, the green and pink spring flowers depicted in the watercolor wilting before red and orange blooms of summer lantana and spikes of Texas sage dominate the page.
They wilt in fast succession too, and pumpkins and squash and a variety of happy pansies and autumnal mums grow in the planters lining the downtown streets.
Russet and golden leaves dance across the pages, and the book seems to settle in my grip, the seasonal swirl finally stopping as it decides we are, in fact, in autumn.
“That’s a fun spell,” Prudence agrees, swatting at one of the leaves.
“Don’t do that,” I scold her. “You’ll tear it.”
“I didn’t have my claws out.” She sounds grumpy, but she keeps her paws off the book as I finally peel my eyes off the magical painting and turn to the first page.
“Wow,” I say softly. A list of signatures and names line the next dozen or so pages, all dated by the witches who must have kept the grimoire over the last few centuries. “This is so incredible.”
It makes me feel… like maybe this is where I was supposed to end up after all, like all these women who came before me have been waiting to welcome me home.
It makes me feel like maybe, with their hands guiding me through time and space, through these pages, it will be okay.
Emotion tightens my chest and I hug the book to myself, needing to tell them thank you, even though I know they’re not really here.
Not like me and Prudence, anyway.
“Thank you for finding me,” I say anyway, quietly, knowing that I won’t have to speak loudly for them to hear if they are listening. “Thank you for helping me.”
Prudence sniffles. “You’re welcome, of course.”
I open my mouth to tell her I wasn’t talking to her, but why bother? She is helping me, after all.
And, despite my better judgment, the grumpy little black cat has really grown on me.
“Come on,” I tell her. “Let’s look through this for a bit, and then we’ll clean up and meet Tara for dinner. We can bring it with us and see what she thinks.”
“Now that? That is a good idea,” Prudence says approvingly.
I beam at her and transfer the book to one arm, scooping her up in the other.
“Together, we can do anything,” I declare, heading for my comfortable couch. “From opening the best bookstore this town has ever seen to getting rid of all the bad ghosts.”
“And maybe even strengthening our core muscles to keep from falling over,” Prudence adds.
I laugh, and she hops out of my grip and onto the couch, then curls up on my shoulder as I sit down.
“You know what, Prudence? I’ll take it. We’re going to call it progress.”
Then I go quiet, pulling the book open on my lap again and getting into what I do best: librarian research mode.