Chapter 2 #3
After a quick shot of magic into the roots of the herbs Cecil and I were growing in the planter by the door, I threw myself onto my wicker chaise and reached for the lavender flourishing in its planter.
Cradled some of the spikes in my hands and drew its calming scent deep into my lungs.
It sprang back out of my hands, not a single bud crushed.
Perfect.
Only two weeks ago, I’d given my demon side complete control of me—magic, body, and soul—not realizing that locking away my elemental side had sentenced nearly every living thing in the garden room to death.
It had nearly broken me.
Now, I was grateful for every growing thing, every precious new bloom. I took nothing for granted. Not a single runner, bud, or leaf.
The garden room itself had shrunk, and at its tiniest had been smaller on the inside than on the outside—the size of a very large closet.
For a few days, Fennel and Cecil had moved into the house with me, and Autry, our adopted three-legged cat, had moved in with one of my other tenants, Trini Alvarado.
With help from the Siete Saguaro soil, Cecil’s green thumb, and my magic, the garden had bloomed again. The interior of the room expanded to accommodate the new growth and the boys eventually moved back into their spots under the herb planter.
Autry, however, had decided she preferred Trini’s place and stayed with her—to Trini’s absolute delight.
Cecil let out a snort-grunt-snore that sounded like thunder and rage.
“Hey, turn onto your side or get up. Your snoring is knocking the knickknacks off the walls.”
The snoring abruptly ceased.
I sat up on the chaise, watched Cecil wipe sleep from his eyes. “How’s the cutting? Did it take to the soil here?”
He nodded solemnly and pointed to the mother-of-pearl planter he normally used for a bed. Until the Curio rowleyanus was growing well, he’d be sleeping elsewhere.
Last night, elsewhere had been in Fennel’s bed.
“You don’t have to camp out in Fennel’s spot. I bought you your own bed, remember? It’s where you store the tablet with your bootleg Ron Finley Masterclass videos.”
The tip of his purple hat flopped down. He chittered something mean under his breath and turned away to spread a layer of dried-out leaves over the potatoes he’d planted in the dresser drawers of an old bureau.
We spent the morning gardening to a mix of prog rock and early metal on KLXX, and before I knew it, it was time to clean up and head into La Paloma to meet Mason.
Ronan was already gone when I walked into the house. I was disappointed that he hadn’t stopped by the garden room before leaving like he usually did. Maybe he’d seen I was busy and didn’t want to disturb me? Funny, he’d never worried about interrupting before.
Fennel had shown up midmorning, while I was working in the soil right outside the garden-room door. He’d immediately leapt onto my back and peered over my shoulder to see what I was doing. He might be a powerful magical and a valued member of my team, but he was still a cat.
I’d asked him to come with Cecil and me to Floyd’s bar. He’d agreed.
I was relieved. Even if I didn’t need his lockpicking magic—and I very likely would—he’d be a reassuring presence.
I cleaned up, changed out of my work clothes and into a pair of jet-black jeans and sleeveless Black Sabbath T-shirt.
Applied more makeup, focusing on making my lips red enough to see from an airliner, then slid my feet into a pair of red ballerina slippers, grabbed my modified Kate Spade bag of witchy tricks, and headed to the Mini with my partners.
The day was hot. Too hot to be wearing black. The weather was too hot for any clothes, really, even shorts and a tank would’ve felt like too much.
Fennel settled in his cat car seat, impatiently waiting for me to blast the air conditioner. Now that I had two seats, he didn’t have to share with Cecil, but the gnome had crowded in with him anyway. Pretty sure he did it to be annoying.
The tiny car cooled down fairly quickly, and we were soon on the road to Perdition a.k.a. Pallás Place.
KLXX played “No Matter What” by Badfinger.
Cecil played the pretend drums on the side of the seat, and Fennel’s tail swayed back and forth, keeping beat with the song.
I was lead-singing the tune, driver’s seat dancing as I sped down the arm road connecting Smokethorn and La Paloma.
“No Matter What” slid into “Come and Get It,” and Cecil switched from air drums to air tambourine.
In the split second between glancing at my partner’s antics in the rearview then back at the road, I spotted it.
Black SUV.
Right rear corner.
Another foot or so, and it would’ve been outside my field of view. At first, I thought it was Mason. It wasn’t. The model and license plate were wrong. Not that I’d memorized his number, but after you get stalked by a few of them, you start clocking some details.
“Not all black SUV drivers are bad guys, but I swear, all bad guys drive black SUVs,” I said to the guys. “Buckle up, boys. We’ve got company.”
A half-second later, the SUV rammed into the right side of my Mini, sending me spinning off the road.