13. Freddie #2
“And Winifred,” Delphi says, taking my hands in her warm ones. “Never go at night. No matter what happens, no matter what you think you hear.”
“Got it,” I promise softly. “Daylight hours only.”
Delphi’s gaze softens further, her thumbs rubbing over the backs of my knuckles.
“The Wood will sense your Resonance, Freddie,” she says in an urgent murmur.
“It’s going to reach for you. Don’t fight it.
It’s okay to lean into your magic out there, to actually use it.
It will keep you safe in ways a simple charm can’t. ”
The suffocating knot instantly tightens in my chest.
“Thanks, Delphi,” I say quickly, pulling my hands away before she can say anything else. “We really better get moving before the wind picks up.”
Before she can protest, I wrap my arms tightly around her neck, burying my face into her shoulder. Delphi stiffens for a split second—she’s never been a big hugger—before letting out a soft sigh and wrapping her arms back around me, patting my back firmly.
I squeeze my eyes shut, holding onto her.
I know she means well. I know everyone wants me to step into this grand, rare power I have.
But I don’t want to hear about tapping into my magic.
I work too damn hard every single day keeping it locked in a box in the back of my brain.
If I lean into it, if I try to use it and fail—if I end up as a useless disappointment when someone actually needs me—I don’t think I could handle it.
It’s just easier to pretend the magic isn’t there at all.
I pull back from Delphi, clear my throat, and hoist my duffel strap higher onto my shoulder. “Right. Luggage, cat, broom. Let’s rock and roll.”
Callum follows me out through the front doors of the inn, and waiting for us on the porch, leaning against the handrail, is my broom.
Calling it a “broom” is a bit of a disservice.
It’s a custom-carved ash wood draft broom, easily six and a half feet long, with a reinforced iron footrest and a thick, sweeping tail made of bound mountain switchgrass.
It’s built for long-distance hauling, not speed.
It’s a monster of a machine compared to the sleek racing brooms kids speed around on nowadays.
Callum’s eyes go visibly wide and he stops on the top step.
“Dusty ol’ gal,” I murmur fondly, stepping up to blow a stray layer of pollen off the grain and giving the handle an affectionate pat.
“When,” Callum starts, his shoulders climbing closer to his ears as he takes a slow step back from the broom, “was the last time you actually flew that thing?”
I tap my index finger against my chin, looking up at the porch rafters as if calculating a complex mathematical equation. “Mmm. Maybe…six months ago?”
Callum’s jaw sets so hard a muscle near his ear twitches.
He crosses his arms tightly over his chest, rubbing the back of his neck with one broad hand while his eyes flick nervously from the worn leather saddle down to the empty drop off the porch.
“I am not going to survive this,” he mutters to himself.
“Sure you are,” I say, slinging the leather carrier harness over my head and securing the waist clip with a satisfying snap. “You’re going to suck it up like the big boy you are. Jett, get over here.”
Jett, who had been lounging lazily on the porch swing, instantly lifts his head, his tail twitching in sheer disgust. “Absolutely not. That thing is humiliating.”
“Oh my god,” I sigh, adjusting the shoulder straps. “Is everybody on this porch a whiner today?”
From my hair, Twyla lets out an offended little huff. “Honestly! Cooperate, Jett, or I will sprinkle itching powder on your cat bed!”
“Come here right now,” I tell him, lurching forward with my hands out like an unhinged zookeeper.
Jett hisses ferociously, scrambling backward across the porch cushions, but I’m faster. I lunge forward, catch him firmly by the scruff of his neck, and haul his hefty sixteen-pound body up into the harness. I zip him in, leaving just his whiskered head poking out of the top flap.
He glares up at me, his yellow eyes slit into tiny daggers. “I loathe you.”
“You’ll get over it,” I say smoothly.
I reach down and grab a small leather crossbody bag from the porch bench, slinging it over my shoulder and carefully adjusting the strap so it doesn’t crush Jett’s ears.
Callum glances from Jett’s furious face down to my side bag. “What’s in there that couldn’t go in the luggage?”
“I’m actually so glad you asked,” I grin, unzipping the main pocket to pull it open for him.
He leans down, peering inside, then freezes. “Is that…is all of that beef jerky?”
“It indeed is,” I say proudly. Inside, packed tight, are at least eight different clear plastic bags.
“Flying makes me snacky. I grabbed my stash from my apartment before we left. I’ve got options—chili lime, Korean barbecue, teriyaki…
” I rummage around, triumphantly pulling out a deep red pack with a flaming skull print on the label.
“And my absolute holy grail: the Carolina Reaper. Made with the hottest peppers in the world.”
Callum stares at the bag, then looks at me like I’ve lost my mind. “Should you really be eating Reaper jerky while operating a flying broomstick?”
I wave a hand dismissively. “Eh, it’s no big deal. I do it all the time.”
Before he can interrogate my dietary choices further, I turn toward our duffels sitting on the floorboards. “Alright, let’s handle these.”
I pull my wand—a simple nine-inch hazel branch—from my back pocket, flicking my wrist down toward the pile. “Reducio,” I whisper.
The air around the leather bags shimmers with a soft violet light, and within two seconds, both full-sized suitcases shrink down to the size of matchboxes. I lean over, pick them up with two fingers, and pop them effortlessly into the tiny saddlebag attached near the broom’s tail.
Callum blinks, staring at the empty porch floor. “Whoa.”
“Pretty cool, right?” I smirk, tucking my wand back into my pocket.
He shifts his weight, looking down at the broom, then at me. “You…know the spell to make our stuff big again, right?”
I gasp loudly, throwing a hand over my chest in horror. “Whoops! Oh no, Callum. I have no idea! We’re stuck with doll-sized clothes forever!”
He just stares at me, unimpressed.
I roll my eyes, snickering. “Of course I know it, loverboy. Relax.”
The screen door creaks open, and Delphi steps out onto the porch, with Alden trailing closely behind her. Delphi gives me one last, lingering look before reaching out and wrapping me in another tight embrace.
“Be safe,” she whispers into my hair.
“Always am,” I lie.
When she lets go, Alden steps up. He doesn’t say anything at first, just steps in and squeezes me so hard my ribs hurt, his chin resting on my shoulder. “Come back in one piece, Fred. Please.”
“That’s the plan, kiddo,” I say, pulling back to look at him.
Looking at my little brother, my heartstrings pull tight. Alden is a total pain in the ass seventy percent of the time, but I have a massive soft spot for him. He’s my person. I’d jump in front of a runaway spell for him without thinking twice.
“I’ll see you guys soon,” I tell them, taking a step back toward the broom. I turn to Callum, swinging my leg over the thick ash frame and straddling the leather saddle. I pat the space directly behind me. “Ready?”
Callum looks at the six-foot piece of wood, looks at the sky, and then looks at me. “Hell no.”
I unlace the zipper on my crossbody, pull out a piece of the Carolina Reaper jerky, and pop it into my mouth, chomping down on the smoky, peppered leather.
“Get your ass over here,” I say around a mouthful, gesturing with my free hand. “We’re losing daylight.”
Callum walks over with the reluctant gait of a man marching toward a firing squad. He stops right at the edge of the ash handle, his hands hovering over the wood like it might bite him. “It’s noon. And where are the helmets?”
I pause my chewing, blinking at him. “Helmets?”
“Helmets,” he repeats, his brow furrowing as he looks around the porch in actual desperation. “You need a helmet to ride a motorcycle on the fucking road! How do you not have helmets for something that goes hundreds or thousands of feet into the air?”
I roll my eyes and shrug nonchalantly, swallowing. “You don’t wear a helmet on an airplane, Callum. Think of it like that. It’s fine.”
I take another bite of the jerky, letting the sharp, vinegary burn of the Reaper pepper hit my tongue.
It barely makes me wince now. Back in my sixth year at academy, a group of cocky upperclassmen boys had dared me to eat a whole dried Reaper behind the greenhouse, convinced I’d cry.
I’d almost thrown up right on their boots, my throat feeling like it was melting from the inside out.
I spent the next six months aggressively building up my spice tolerance out of pure, petty spite until I could eat them like fruit leather. Now, it’s just a nice, fiery kick.
Callum watches me chew with utter disbelief, sighs heavily with an “It’s not even remotely close to the same thing and I can’t believe I’m doing this,” and raises two fingers to rapidly tap his forehead, chest, and shoulders—a frantic little sign of the cross—before finally stepping over the tail of the broom.
He climbs on behind me, and as his weight sinks into the saddle, my pulse jumps into my throat. Having him this close with his knees bracketed around my thighs and the rock-hard plane of his abs pressed straight into my spine, makes it impossible to remember what I was about to say or do.
And then he breathes near my neck, and I get a full dose of him. A solid mix of Gillette shaving cream, clean cotton, and a subtle cologne.