Chapter Thirty-Four
In which we learn that even the most indomitable witch cannot always prevent disaster.
Scarlett…
The next day…
“They burned the spellshop down.”
I suck in a breath so fast that I choke, clutching my phone. “Where are you? Where are the Familiars?”
“We’re safe,” Morgan says, giving a harsh little laugh. “Turns out your husband had someone keeping an eye on me here, stateside. The fire started downstairs, I got the cats out the back staircase and he was already there.”
“Let me talk to him.” I put the phone on Facetime and immediately recognize the guard. He was one of the men who repaired the door at The Witchery. “Donald, right?”
“Aye, ma’am.”
“Wallace sent you there to watch over Morgan?”
“Aye, ma’am.”
“Did you see who set fire to her shop?” If he repeats ‘Aye, ma’am’ again I swear…
“No,” he says, face hardening. “It was a professional job, but they dinnae see the back staircase from the flat, it’s nearly hidden on the side of the building.”
“Is it…” My throat tightens. “Is it a complete loss?”
Donald's expression changes to bleak. “Aye, ma’am.”
“Fuck this Kholodov bastard and all the sons of bitches in his shitty Bratva straight to hell!” I run a hand through my hair. “Where are you now?”
“Heading for the private airfield outside of Marblehead. The Pakhan from the Morozov Bratva is sending a jet down, he can get here quicker than one of ours.”
“Are you safe? Did anyone see you get Morgan out of there?”
“I dinnae believe so, ma’am,” he says patiently. “Also, the Miss here just said she’s going to rip my ear off and hit me with it if I dinnae give the phone back.”
“Thank you, Donald. I mean that with all my heart.”
“Hey.” It’s Morgan. “I heard you cursing out the Kholodov guy. I think that’s the most profanity I’ve ever heard from you and all in one sentence. Well done.”
“Stop being so stoic,” I snap. “I’m so sorry, honey.”
Morgan’s face crumples for just a moment before her expression hardens again. “It’s all gone. Everything. My tiles, the herbs I’ve been growing for ten years, my cauldron.”
“You’re alive, the Familiars are safe and we’ll figure out the rest when you get here, okay?” I say firmly before it hits me. “I’m so sorry, this is my fault. None of this would have happened if you didn’t know me.”
“You cut that guilt and torment shit out right now. This is all part of the vagaries of the Universe, and you can’t control it. Apparently,” she adds sourly, “neither could I, which is humbling.”
“We’ll build you a new one, in Edinburgh. I know we can’t replace the herbs or the tinctures, all those things. Your beautiful tiles, gone… But Wallace can spend a lot of money, and I’ll help you, okay?”
I keep her on Facetime, anxiously watching her talk as if she might disappear right before my eyes. We talk until Donald reaches the airfield and I can see the landing lights of a jet swooping in.
“Donald, my implausible guardian angel, says I have to go. Time is of the essence and all that.” She gathers up the cats and I realize that there’s nothing else, not a backpack or a purse. Everything is gone.
“Get on the jet,” I urge. “I’ll be here, waiting for you and we’ll… we’ll gather all the things you need for the ‘turning blood into tar’ spell and you can go to town on the Kholodovs.”
That wins me a reluctant smile, filled with malice. “Yes, honey. I think we will,” Morgan says. “See you soon.”
Morgan and Wallace arrive at the back entrance of the house at the same time, and when they get a look at each other, she howls with laughter.
“You just set a fire and I just got out of one!” She leans on me for balance, holding her stomach. “We both stink of brimstone and bad decisions. This shit is beautiful!"
Wallace kisses me before sweeping past us, “Morgan, glad you’re here safe. I know ye and Scarlett have a lot to talk about.”
He heads toward the shower downstairs as James picks up Wallace’s filthy jacket and Morgan’s shawl between his thumb and forefinger with the same enthusiasm he would show for a diaper filled by a baby with explosive diarrhea, and disappears into the laundry room.
Where, I’m guessing, he’ll weep softly in the corner during the rinse cycle.
“Come on, let’s get the Familiars settled in your room upstairs.” Murder Mittens curls around my arm, and Morgan takes the other.
“Why doesn’t Wallace just shower in your bathroom?” she asks, readjusting the cat weight on her shoulders to a more balanced load.
“It’s a ritual, I think. I know he doesn’t want to come back to me, stinking of accelerant and ash…” I think about it. “Almost as if he wants to wash his sins away before holding me. What he’s forgotten, though, is the smell of smoke is now officially a turn-on.”
“Okay, you can just stop that filthy talk right now.” Morgan shudders dramatically. I’d given her a very abbreviated account of what happened in the club. “How is he acting now? Did you defrost that thick layer of asshole off of him?”
“He did the most admirable thing a man can do,” I say. “He apologized. Handsomely. Eloquently.” I give her a smile. “Sincerely.”
“Good, then I don’t have to cast the spell that would rot his dick off. Oh, this is nice.” Morgan turns in a circle, surveying the room. I’d picked a guest suite with dark blue walls, with a lot of soft, comforting throws and fabric to throw over the lamps for her moody look.
“Do you want to freak out a little?” I offer.
Morgan turns the full force of her glare on me, kohl-lined eyes narrowed. “Freak out? Are you expecting emotional? You know I don’t want to do emotional. What I do want to do is find the motherfucker who burned down my spellshop. Then, I want to find the man who ordered it.”
She gets up on the bed, booted feet planted on the cashmere spread, her voice rising as she shouts, “Then I want to turn them both into warthogs, I want them to get buggered by pumpkin squashes for a month. Then, with a spiked dildo. Then I want to throw them into the tiger cage at the Edinburgh Zoo to watch them get eaten alive! That’s what I want! ”
“That all seems reasonable,” I say in a small voice.
Sinking down on the bed, Morgan gestures to Familiar One and Familiar Two, who immediately leap onto her lap, Murder Mittens joins them until poor Morgan’s lap is overflowing with kitty.
They create a yowling monologue between them, no doubt criticizing our choice of cat treats and subpar lounging areas.
Or, maybe the Familiars are catching Murder Mittens up about their life burning down, and she’s describing how nauseating Wallace and I are together.
It’s hard to know.
When they’re finished airing their grievances, I pull Morgan off the bed. “Time for a shower. You stink. Then, an excellent meal.”
“Excellent?” she says, “Then I know you didn’t make it.”
“Oh, you’re going to love it here. We have a chef. And a butler. It’s all so weird.”
“I just read a Victorian novel where the butler was required to wipe his employer’s ass. Does Wallace wipe his own ass?” She’s strolling toward the ensuite bathroom, shedding her grimy black dress as she goes.
“No, James-”
“Jeeves?” she asks.
“No, James. The butler. From what I can see, he spends most of his time tidying things with a quivering upper lip. I’m not sure if it’s due to the presence of living things in his domain since Wallace is usually never here, or that’s just his resting butler face.” She laughs, like I hope she will.
“You’re wearing the Triquetra,” she says, touching my necklace.
“I promised you that I’d never take it off.” She gives me a fierce hug before turning into Morgan, the Feared Witch again.
“Go get me some underwear and something to sleep in,” she commands as she turns on the shower. “And none of your sensible cotton shit, either. The expensive stuff Wallace bought you.”
“Of course, my lady,” I bow deeply, then duck to avoid the shampoo bottle she hurls at my head.