CHAPTER ONE #2
“Sweetie.” Kathleen rested her hand on my elbow. “Surely you know that you don’t have to worry that I’ll start gossiping about you to the rest of the neighborhood. I’m the very soul of discretion.”
That made me smile. “Oh, I know.”
“I clocked you that first summer you moved in, by the way. I was up sitting on my back porch—couldn’t sleep—and there you were in your backyard, lighting candles under the full moon and whistling up the wind.”
Glancing over at her, I smiled. “Were you shocked?”
“Nope.” Kathleen shook her head. “First time I went to your bookstore confirmed it for me. The atmosphere, the way you decorated it, right down to the purple door and trim on the building. Plus, you’ve got that whole section of metaphysical and magick books.”
I did indeed. Those specific books were tucked in the back of the store, but you had to look to find them.
“Then there’s the crystals and other tchotchkes you have around here,” Kathleen said pointing to the eaves of the back porch. “Like all of your fancy wind chimes. There’s one with faeries, one with the phases of the moon and that big one with the pentagrams on it.”
“The wind chimes are where only friends and family would see it,” I said, sipping my wine. “I’m the soul of discretion, sugar.”
Kathleen threw back her head and laughed. “Honey, between that, and your looks—”
“You mean my silver hair?”
“I like your hair,” Kathleen said. “It’s not everyday you see a thirty-year-old with a full head of natural silver hair.”
“I’m thirty-six,” I reminded her.
“Yeah, and I was fifty before I ditched the dye bottle and let my gray hair grow in.”
“It’s a family trait,” I explained. “All the women in the Southern family turn gray by the time they’re twenty-five.”
“Maybe it’s your style,” Kathleen said, thinking it over. “I mean you do wear lots of dark colors, flowing dresses and romantic styles. It reminds me of Stevie Nicks. Plus, there’s the vibes you put off... it’s obvious that you’re a Witch.”
“That’s true. I’ve never hidden that fact, but my other...position, within the community,” I explained. “That’s less well known.”
“I figured.” Kathleen nodded. “Secret’s safe with me. It’s the least I can do considering all the support you were to me last year.”
I reached out my hand and took hers. “You’re getting stronger every day,” I told her.
Kathleen blew out a long breath. “Nobody tells you that surgery and then radiation will put you on your ass for months afterward. They say things like: ‘Hey, you won’t lose your hair. You might feel tired after a treatment. Try going to bed earlier.’ No one warns you what four weeks of radiation treatments does to you physically.
How exhausting it truly is...I lost count of the times people said to me, ‘at least it’s not chemo. ’”
“People are assholes,” I told her, giving her fingers a squeeze.
With her free hand Kathleen held up her almost empty wineglass. “Top me up,” she said. “I’m going to have hot flashes all night long from the wine, but damned if it doesn’t hit the spot.”
“I thought those were getting better,” I said, dutifully pouring her more wine.
“The hormone blockers give you intense hot flashes. I’m learning to roll with it. I have fans everywhere at home.”
Lifting my hand, I called to the element of air. A gentle cooling breeze washed over us and sent the wind chimes singing. “How’s that?’ I asked.
“My hero.” Kathleen chuckled. “You know, I was reading something interesting the other day. How there was a powerful Witch named Elizabeth Southern—from Scotland—who was implicated in the plot to kill King James I…Something about conjuring up storms to mess with his fleet.”
I shifted in my chair to fully face her. “You’ve been reading up on Witches in history?”
“Among other things.” She nodded. “The Burning Times. That’s what they called it, right?”
“That’s correct.”
“I’ve got money on the table that she was an ancestor of yours,” Kathleen said. “You mentioned once that you had Scottish ancestry.”
“She was an ancestor,” I confirmed.
“Knew it,” Kathleen said smugly. “You should let folks in the community know that. It’d add some flair to your not inconsiderable reputation.”
Chuckling over that, I helped myself to another slice of cheese. “I’m glad you dropped by tonight, Kathleen.”
***
I woke to the sound of thunder the next morning and squinted at the window in my bedroom.
The light was gray and gloomy, so I patted my nightstand for my glass case and slipped my glasses on.
Climbing from my bed, I stretched, yawned and made my way to the window.
Droplets of water were beginning to fall, and I loved a good rainstorm.
“Less watering of the gardens for me to do tonight,” I said around another yawn. Scratching at my hair, I headed for the bathroom and the shower.
A half-hour later, I was sitting at my kitchen table, comfy in a chenille robe and eating my breakfast. My hair was pulled up into a loose bun, and I allowed tendrils to frame my face. I’d already done my makeup; all that was left was a bit of powder and lipstick.
I preferred to relax during breakfast, so all I had to do was brush my teeth and get dressed before leaving for the day.
As was my habit, I made a large breakfast, since I wouldn’t be breaking for lunch until later in the afternoon.
The sound of the rain was comforting and cozy that morning.
Despite the gloomy weather, the view out of my kitchen window was gloriously green.
Working my way through bacon, eggs, grits, and fresh fruit, I sipped at my coffee and relished the solitude and the quiet.
Don’t get me wrong, I loved my bookstore and interacting with customers.
Dex was like the brother I’d never had, and he knew as much about the store and stock as I did.
Also, having Kate and Circe as my witchy retail neighbors was phenomenal.
But the mornings were just for me. I needed the solitude to reset and refocus for the busy day ahead. The silent mornings often got me through the crazy world of retail...not to mention Witch politics.
In the three years since I’d arrived in Birmingham, it had become home, and my friends were now my chosen family.
Once I’d finished, I rose to place my breakfast dishes in the dishwasher.
I was glad that I’d let Dex talk me into adding a panel over it.
Now the appliance blended in seamlessly with the other painted cabinets.
The silvery green of the cabinets was warmed by the original pine floors, and the flipper I’d bought the house from had added white subway tile as a backsplash.
I wiped any crumbs from the butcher block counters and was wringing out the dishrag when my phone chimed signaling a text.
Walking over to the table where I’d left my phone, I snagged it on my way back to my bedroom. I glanced down at the notification, saw the sender’s name, and stopped mid-step.
Charles Montgomery. He was the one person in the community ballsy enough to contact me through my personal cell phone that early in the morning.
Everyone else knew better.
“Damn it,” I muttered.
The outside world had intruded and my contentment bubble had been pricked. Taking its cues from my changing mood, thunder rumbled ominously. I drew in a deep breath and braced myself before clicking on the text to read it.
Need to speak to you about a potentially serious issue within the community.
Swearing at the cryptic and vague message, I didn’t answer.
Charles Montgomery was the leader of a lodge of ceremonialists.
He and his group were from the north of the Viaduct in the Financial District in downtown Birmingham.
The Witches of Southside tended to avoid Montgomery and his elite cronies like the plague.
It wasn’t so much a social class thing as a territorial divide.
And the members of his lodge were rather biased against the earthier Witches.