40 Jasper
JASPER
Fifteen minutes after catching Birdie’s second orgasm in my mouth, I’m sitting at the kitchen table with a beer while she stands at the counter, fully dressed, shaking croutons onto a garden salad.
I can’t tell what she’s thinking and it’s maddening.
Unless we’re touching, and I’m turning her on, she’s a fortress with high walls.
Is she gonna stay? Is she gonna run? I can’t ask because I can’t get her alone. Hortie won’t leave us alone!
The crazy old bat hasn’t stopped talking since she came home.
She stands now at the stove, stirring her world-famous arrabbiata sauce, telling some story about a runaway goat over at Dent Farms. Birdie is doing what I usually do, nodding along, exclaiming occasionally.
Hortie doesn’t expect much more from her audience.
She could talk to the paint on the wall.
Meanwhile, I’m just sitting here like an asshole, watching them float around my kitchen.
Hortie preps the pasta, and Birdie makes a vinaigrette for the salad.
She helps herself to everything, only asking when she can’t find what she’s looking for.
There’s a twinge in my chest I can’t help but absently rub.
She doesn’t even realize that she’s treating this house like a home. Her home.
Pickles hops up on the chair next to me, glancing my way. His yellow eyes hold a question. All I can do is shrug. Fuck if I know. The cat turns, watching them work. After a moment, he starts to purr.
Sure, he can be happy. But I’m fucking stressed. There’s more to say here. Birdie needs to understand what it means to be in a coven. That’s still happening, right? She hasn’t changed her mind? She agreed to stay on the island to help me, but she never actually agreed to join the coven.
Wait—but did she agree to stay? We sort of got distracted with sex. I know I was asking her to stay. I definitely remember saying the word “stay.” But then I was three fingers deep inside her cunt, and all thought of conversation sort of left my head.
The cat glances to me again, and I wince, rubbing the back of my neck. Gods, how am I fumbling this already?
He flicks his tail in irritation.
“Don’t start,” I mutter.
Rolling his eyes at me, he focuses his attention back on Birdie. The little shit is just as obsessed with her as I am.
The real problem is that I don’t actually know how to make Birdie part of the coven. Talk about a useless high priest. I’m sure my mother must be laughing up at me from hell.
In my defense, we’ve only ever initiated members of the four ancestral bloodlines.
A witch’s element typically awakens when they turn fifteen.
From there, we have a celebration to formally welcome them into the coven.
There’s never a question of whether they’re in; the bloodline assures it.
Even without magic, Phoebe is accepted and loved by the coven.
She could be more active if she wanted to be.
I think it’s just too painful for her. She took never awakening really hard.
I stroke the cat absently, petting him between the ears. If Birdie is going to stay on this island, she needs to be in the coven. I just have to figure out how to do it . . .
Within the hour, we’re all seated at the table. Birdie passes me the bowl of salad, and I pass it to Hortie. We’re the picture of domesticity . . . until I reach for the breadbasket and Hortie slaps my hand away. “Save some for the ladies. You already ate, remember?”
My jaw clenches tight as I glance to Birdie. Her cheeks instantly bloom pink. She drops her guilty gaze to her plate. The silence is only broken by the sound of Pickles loudly lapping tuna water from a dish on the floor.
Without missing a beat, Hortie cackles. Swiping her margarita off the table, she takes a sip, singing, “Busted!”
Perfect. Thanks, Hort.
Based on Birdie’s expression, I imagine she’s now picturing a way she can tunnel out of this house and escape.
Once her plate is full, Hortie picks up her fork, twirling her pasta against her spoon. She looks to Birdie. “So, dear . . . afternoon delights aside, how was the rest of your day?”
And because, apparently, I have no fucking chill, I blurt, “I told her we’re all witches.”
Birdie goes still as stone, while Hortie gasps in surprise, her cutlery clattering down. “Oh, Jasper, you never!”
“She needed to know. Things were getting complicated with Howe. She couldn’t walk around this island knowing I’m alive when I’m supposed to be dead.” Setting my own fork aside, I look to Birdie. “You can’t tell anyone I’m still alive. You understand that, right?”
She nods, not looking up from her plate. “Yeah, I got it.”
“You’ll go to work at the shop tomorrow with Hortie, and people will say I’m dead. You have to agree with them. You’ll have to console them—”
Now she looks up. “I said I got it.”
“And you can’t let on that anything is wrong with Howe. We need you to keep playing along.”
At this her eyes go wide. “Wait, you want me to keep looking for the journal?”
“I want you to tell him you’re still looking for the journal,” I correct. “You won’t be giving it to him, no matter what comes.”
Hortie glances between us. “What is this? What journal?”
“Robert Dent’s journal,” I reply.
Her penciled brows furrow. “Do we know a Robert Dent?”
“Alice’s husband. Howe is using Birdie to look for it.”
Now Birdie drops her fork, her eyes flashing with annoyance. “Okay, no. No one is using Birdie. I work for Howe, and he gave me a task. It’s in my power to do it or not.”
“Oh, you’re gonna do it,” I assure her. “You and I will go to Mercy tomorrow and ask for the journal. If she has it, she’ll give it to me.”
Birdie arches a brow. “Well, if she’ll give it to you, then why do I need to be there?”
“Because you’ve seen the photocopied pages and I haven’t. You’ll know if it’s the right journal.”
The old bat’s gaze darts between us like she’s watching us volley a tennis ball. From the other end of the table, Pickles sits by the salt and pepper shakers, doing the same. “Can I ask why we’re looking for Robert Dent’s moldy old journal?” she asks.
“Howe needs it for proof of where the First Five are buried up at Homewood,” I reply.
She gasps. “Oh, sweet rings of Saturn. And why would he want to go robbing the graves of the dead?”
“Because he thinks the First Five were buried with their grimoires. That’s what he’s promised to Ludmilla. That’s why she’s funding his dig. It’s why she wants me dead.”
Hortie sighs, shaking her head. “What a nasty kettle of fish this has all turned out to be.”
I look to Birdie, holding her gaze. “It’s okay, Hort. We’re gonna find the journal before Ludmilla can get her claws into it. Then Birdie here is going to dig up the bodies for us.”
At this, Birdie gasps, leaning back in her chair with her arms crossed. “Excuse me, but Birdie will do no such thing.”
“You have to,” I press. “You’re the only one Ludmilla won’t suspect—”
“Stop right there.” She holds up a hand, righteous indignation flashing in her eyes.
Gods, she’s so beautiful when she’s mad.
It makes the red in her hair glow just a little brighter.
And when it’s me she’s directing her anger at?
I swear to fuck, I could crawl under this table and eat her again right here and now.
Hortie can stay if she wants. I don’t even care.
Birdie glances between us. “Look, I’ll help you find the journal, but I am not gonna go dig up any bodies for you.
I may be the kind of girl who drops her pants for a zaddy lumbersnack in the middle of kitchens that aren’t mine—sorry again, Hort—but I do have some principles.
And those include not desecrating the graves of the dead. ”
I bite back a smile as Hortie’s brows furrow in confusion. “What’s a zaddy lumbersnack?”
“Nothing,” says Birdie at the same time I say, “Me.”
Birdie rolls her eyes. “Sorry. Find someone else for that part of your evil plan. I have too much shit on my plate as it is to worry about the ghost of Be-Good Prescott haunting me to my own early grave, thank you very much.”
Her exclamation fills me with instant relief. I glance around, waiting.
When I don’t rise to her baiting, it sucks the wind from her sails. Her eyes go wide as she looks around too. “What is it? What’s happening?”
I hold up a finger, still waiting. After a moment, I look to Hortie. “See that?”
“See what?” Birdie presses. “Jasper—”
“The island believes you.”
She blinks twice. “The island—what?”
“This island is warded,” I explain. “No magical creature can step foot on Burr Island without express permission from a member of the coven. And no human may access the island if they intend to do it harm. These wards have kept us safe for nearly four hundred years. The island believes you, Birdie. It believes in your pure intent. You don’t want to harm us or the graves of the First Five. You don’t seek personal gain.”
Now she really is reeling. She holds to the table with both hands. “Can I just process this out loud for a second?”
I nod. “Be my guest.”
She takes a deep breath. “Okay . . . so, you’re asking me to help you find a journal Mercy Bartlett likely won’t want to show us, right?”
“As her high priest, she’ll show it to me whether she wants to or not.”
“But will she show it to me?”
“If you’re coven, yes.”
Next to me, Hortie gasps. Reaching out, she grabs my arm. “Oh, Jasper, what a wonderful idea! Would you really let her join?” She claps her hands together. “Oh, it would make Phoebe so happy to have a friend in the coven.”
Bouncing down the table, Pickles hops excitedly into Birdie’s lap. Her eyes go, if possible, even wider. “Wait—you want me to join your coven now?”
Grunting, I twist my arm free of Hortie’s clutches. “Only if you’re willing.”
Birdie glances between us. “But—well, is that really necessary?”