Chapter 5
Iwake up and instantly miss the twins. After we had sex, we took a shower and they got into bed with me, snuggling until I fell asleep.
I feel so safe nestled between both of them.
Yawning, I reach out and find my phone on the nightstand to turn off my alarm.
I lay in bed for another few minutes, and then get up to get dressed for work.
I fell asleep on wet hair, and it dried all weird.
Not that I style my hair for work, but I do make an effort to look neat and put together.
I run my brush under water and try to fix the weird part I have going on.
Giving up, I dampen my brush again, run it through my hair, and pull it all back in a tight French braid.
I don’t understand how some women are good at doing their hair.
After washing my face and brushing my teeth, I put on black pants and a white blouse, slipping my belt through the loops as I go downstairs. The grimoire is out on the counter, with Jac’s notebook on top. I plug in my coffee maker and pick up the notebook, looking down at what he translated.
It’s the section on spirits. He has two pages written out, and I know there’s more.
“Thank you,” I whisper, looking at the basement door.
He did this because he knows how much it means to me.
Since I lay around in bed, I don’t have time to read the notes before heading into work.
I put the grimoire away, double check that the runes that control where the guys turn to stone are safely out of sight, hidden beneath their stone feet, and lock up, taking the notebook with me, drinking my coffee on my drive to work.
“Morning,” I say to the receptionist as I pass by.
“Good morning, Detective,” she says back with a smile. I’m early, like usual, and the office is rather quiet. We get nice nights every now and then. They’re rare and almost weird, but always welcome.
I get to my desk, set my shit down, and open the notebook, eager to read what Jac wrote.
“Bisset,” the police captain says, stepping out of his office. I set the notebook down and look up. “What are you doing here?”
I raise an eyebrow. “Working?”
“You’re supposed to be taking the week off.”
“Why would I do that?”
His eyes close in a slow blink. “I don’t know, maybe because you were tied up and tortured by a serial killer?” Shaking his head, he waves me into his office. I close the notebook and put it in my desk drawer, locking it before I get up and go into the captain’s office.
“You’re one of the best detectives I have,” he starts, looking from me to his computer.
“But?”
“But HR emailed me this morning. You haven’t used your vacation days in two years.”
I push my shoulders back, a little embarrassed. I had no one to go on vacation with, and I have issues with the whole being alone with nothing to do thing.
“I like my job.”
“You’re dedicated, and I admire that. But you need to take a vacation so HR stops breathing down my neck. Take some time off for R and R after what just happened. And then take at least a week of your vacation.”
“A week?”
“At least. HR is all about numbers on this, and you’ve pulled a lot of overtime.”
“Starting today?”
“Yes.” He turns to me, expression warming. “You’re good, Bisset. But even the best cops need to step away for a bit. Clear your head. Let your wound heal.”
Speaking of healing, I wonder if anyone will notice my lack of injuries. The captain saw me after I rescued Gemma from that abandoned building. I’m wearing long sleeves and pants so it’s not as obvious, and makeup could be used to explain why the bruises on my face are gone.
“All right. I’ll go home and, uh, relax.”
“I don’t want to see you back here until Monday.”
I set the jar of paint down and look around the master bedroom.
Why did I think this was a good idea? Though the dark gold makes me feel a bit like I’m rooming in Gryffindor, it makes the room feel too dark and stuffy.
I picked a light gray, which is “one of the hottest colors right now,” according to the guy at the store.
“I’ll do it later,” I say out loud, hoping it’ll keep me accountable. I’m never going to feel like painting this room, and putting it off is only delaying the inevitable. I already spent the money on paint and supplies.
Rolling my eyes at myself, I go downstairs and get something to eat, reading through Jac’s notes once again. After leaving work, I went to the hardware store for paint, and then paid Lyra a visit, getting everything she had that could help me break a curse.
Lyra, who owns a New Age shop in town, is your stereotypical modern-day witch.
She knows her shit as well as any modern witch can, might be able to work a few minor spells but lacks real power.
Unlike me, whose power comes from within, Lyra or any other modern witch would have to tap into something to power a spell. Herbs and crystals only get you so far.
Luckily, Lyra isn’t the type of person to go dark, and she has a wealth of information on the other witches in the surrounding area.
She knows enough to question why I was buying everything she had for sale that could repel negativity, and I told her a variation of the truth.
Let’s face it: even for someone like Lyra, hearing the full truth would be hard to believe.
I inherited a house, stepped inside, and lifted a thousand-year-old sleeping spell, waking four men who were cursed to be gargoyles, blamed for a murder they didn’t commit.
Oh, and the murder victim is my distant relative, who put a love spell on one of the guys who is cursed. And I’m sleeping with all four of them.
Hah.
So instead, I told her I was worried about the negativity I come into in my line of work and felt like I easily piss off a lot of not-so-nice people.
As I was paying she gave me some advice, including watching a YouTube channel made by her favorite “witch vlogger.” I didn’t know that was even a thing, though I shouldn’t be surprised in this day and age.
People are willing to put anything and everything onto the internet.
Privacy is a thing of the past when it comes to getting likes and comments.
I’m honestly curious to watch the channel and decide what’s bullshit or not.
I’m sure there are a handful of people out there who have had real experiences, and I know there are other witches like me.
And I’m positive we’re not going to try and gain social media fame.
I don’t want people to know I have powers—real powers.
People fear what they don’t understand, and when something other than money can make you powerful in this country, well…
it wouldn’t go over well for us with active powers.
Finished with my food, I put my plate in the sink and go upstairs, grumbling to myself about being overly ambitious for starting this stupid project.
I stand in the middle of my bedroom, trying to decide which wall to paint first. There’s one with no windows or doors, and it has one ugly photo hanging up that was here when I moved in.
I take it down, scoot the dresser out, and then start taping off the molding.
On any house design show I’ve ever seen, people rave about crown molding.
Those people must have never had to tape it off for paint, because this is a pain in the ass.
When I finally get one wall taped off, I change into old clothes, spread the tarp on the ground, and get to work.
I got expensive paint after being promised I wouldn’t need to do two coats even though the gold is a bit dark.
I start rolling it on, doubting the fact I can get away with one coat.
Starting to sweat, I pull my old shirt off and, wearing just a sports bra and running shorts, open a window.
The weather is random at the end of May here in Philly, and one day it can be bright, sunny, and warm and the next we can wake and need our coats again.
Today’s a mix in between with a nice breeze that feels so good blowing through the open windows.
This house doesn’t have central air and I know that’ll be an issue here soon enough.
It takes a while, but when the first wall is done I step back and nod at it approvingly.
I think one coat will do the trick, and I’m pleased with the color I went with.
Setting the paint roller down, I pick up the tape and move onto the next wall, needing to tape around the doorframes of both the closet and master bathroom.
My mind wanders as I press the blue tape on the wooden frames, thinking about ghosts.
I saw something, obviously. It might not actually be my mother, but it was something.
I did a spell and it worked, and I know I can do it again.
I meant it when I promised Thomas I wouldn’t try it on my own.
I’m not stupid and I don’t want to risk opening a rift again.
I’m lucky nothing terrible happened, and that it went away on its own.
You don’t get lucky like that twice.
Once I get everything taped off, I move some more furniture and get back to painting. I get around the bathroom door, thinking this isn’t too bad. Then by the time I’m done with this fucking wall I’m cursing myself for starting.
Needing a break, I sit on my bed, eyeballing the bullshit book about spirit communication on the dresser.
I’m not going to cast a spell. I’m not even going to think about spells.
But I didn’t get very far and, dammit, I’m curious.
Stacking my pillows against the headboard, I lean back and leaf through the book, skimming more than reading.
Starting to feel tired, I yawn and put the book down, telling myself I’m just going to close my eyes for a few seconds.
A few seconds turns into a few minutes, and I’m dozing off. My eyes flutter open when I hear voices coming from downstairs. At first I think it’s the guys, but it’s not dark enough yet. I sit up, straining to listen.