Chapter 15 #2
The brownstone filled with quiet murmurs and the low buzz of activated wards, until the space felt tighter, sharper. More secure.
Michael straightened from where he’d been setting a perimeter glyph behind the couch. “So, what’s the real plan? Just hold the line until the witches come back?”
Payne shook his head. “We hold the line. But if the thing comes back, we don’t wait.”
He looked toward the curtained windows, jaw set. “This time, we hunt it.”
The sun dipped low over the Tennessee hills, casting long shadows through the trees as the witches finished hauling the last of the altar supplies down the moss-lined path.
“Does the moon know it’s supposed to rise right on cue?” Brianna asked, “Because I am not dragging this cauldron back uphill in the dark.”
“Speak to it kindly,” Joell said, balancing a basket of candles on one hip and carrying a silver staff. “The moon responds to positive reinforcement.”
“She also responds to bribes,” Victoria added, brushing leaves from her cloak. “I brought strawberry mooncakes.”
“Now I know you’re joking,” Katie said.
“No. I really did bring moon pies,” Victoria said with a smirk.
Lioness said, “I brought vibes.”
“You brought wine,” Rayna corrected. “And none of it made it down the hill unopened.”
“Like I said, Vibes,” she insisted, holding up a bottle of pinot noir like a peace offering.
They reached a mossy clearing that the past magic circles had already softened for them. Flat ground, no brambles, and the hand-carved altar slab in the middle of a circle of trees.
Cushions, lawn chairs, and one inflatable couch that Lioness had conjured for “child-like ambience” circled the firepit.
Katie trailed behind them, her floating goldfish bubble bobbing slightly too close to her head. Joell’s black cat familiar prowled the outer boundary.
“Please tell me I don’t have to chant anything tonight,” she muttered.
“You will have to officially name your familiar by holding it up to the moon and chanting its name three times,” Rayna said, eyeing the goldfish as it swam a lazy loop.
“I was hoping we could just… not do that.”
Joell shook her head. “Every familiar picks its witch. And every witch has to name what she’s claimed.”
“Even if it’s a weird psychic fish who forgets its own name every eleven seconds?”
The goldfish perked up. It did a barrel roll that might’ve been excitement. “Did you say eleven? Eleven is a sacred number. So is seven. So is lavender. Beware the lavender.”
Katie squinted at it. “Can I name him ‘Brain Damage’?”
“No,” said all the witches in unison.
She sighed and plopped onto the inflatable couch, which made a sound between a whoopee cushion and a duck. The fish floated in a gentle orbit above Katie’s head, blowing bubbles of glowing prophecy that no one could interpret.
They set up the altar with candles, runes, spring flowers, crystals, and eggs. Crystal added a woven nest of feathers and twigs, then stood back to admire her arrangement like a pagan Martha Stewart.
Then came dinner: picnic blankets, charcuterie, berry salad, vegan wraps, spicy stuffed mushrooms, and an entire board of deviled eggs in honor of Ostara’s fertility magic.
Someone conjured chocolate bars. Someone else summoned marshmallows.
It was all very Pinterest-meets-pagan-revival until Lioness dropped a graham cracker into the fire and declared it a burnt offering to the gods of PMS. She declared a male had to have invented that curse. Probably just for laughs.
Katie didn’t say much. She watched the witches laugh and tease each other, and observed the goldfish bob in its dream-bubble like a soft lantern, even smiling once when it smacked its face into the side of the bubble and then immediately forgot and resumed its merry hum.
As the last light drained from the sky and the moon began its slow rise over the ridge, the air thickened. Soft winds whispered through the branches. The magic shifted, like the earth was exhaling.
Rayna stood, brushing crumbs from her robe. “All right, witches. Let’s get weird.”
“Hold up.” Joell’s clipboard thunked against her thigh. “We forgot the kid.”
Everyone blinked at her.
“The graffiti-marked boy,” she clarified. “We parked him in the VR lounge and never told him dinner was happening.”
Lioness winced. “We are very bad foster witches.”
Victoria tapped her crystal watch. “How long has he been in there?”
“A couple of hours,” Sahara guessed. “Long enough to beat the tutorial, overthrow the pixel monarchy, and develop carpal tunnel.”
Rayna blew out a breath. “Okay, that’s on us. Someone go fetch him before he thinks we’ve abandoned him to the metaverse.”
All eyes drifted to Katie.
“Oh, great,” she muttered. “Send the new girl, who’s still processing the fact that her emotional-support fish doubles as a fortune-cookie.”
Bubbles twirled. “The boy sees shapes in shadows. Offer him chocolate.”
“See?” Katie pushed off the inflatable couch. “Fine. Any advice before I go trudging through a magically relocated mansion in the dark?”
“Take a lantern,” Victoria said, handing her one that glowed blue and white. “Avoid the west staircase. It might be haunted. And if you hear chanting from the attic, shut the door and walk away.”
“She’s just messing with you,” Magda said.
“Comforting.” Katie lifted the lantern. “Be back with our lost pup.”
She headed up the path toward the mansion’s porch, Bubbles floating beside her like a glowing balloon. The rest of the witches shuffled awkwardly.
Brianna uncorked a bottle of pinot. “We should probably plate another set of s’mores.”
Lioness snorted. “S’mores are plated now?”
“Everything’s plated if you have enough attitude,” Victoria said.
Minutes later, Katie reappeared, lantern bobbing, and right behind her, the boy. Headset pushed up like a crooked crown, eyes dazed but curious.
“I smell chocolate,” he said.
“We have dinner, too,” Joell offered.
“And s’mores,” Lioness added. “The fancy plated kind.”
The boy gave a shy half-smile and followed them into the firelight. Katie nudged him toward an empty cushion, then flopped back onto the inflatable couch as Bubbles resumed orbit.
Rayna raised her cup. “Now that everyone’s accounted for… witches, witch-adjacent mortals, and invited familiars, let’s let the boy feast.”
The moon crested the ridge in full silver glory, the altar candles caught the first glint of lunar light, and the clearing hummed to life. Somewhere above, a goldfish whispered prophecy: “The boy realizes he isn’t alone,” and it was as if the night leaned in to listen.