Chapter 6
SIX
I woke up the next afternoon, so out of it I had to lie there for several minutes to reorient myself to the earth. My headache was gone, but my muscles still felt achy.
I blinked up at the ceiling fan and let out a little groan. Light streamed through the room.
Bright light. I frowned and rolled over to fumble around my nightstand, my hand patting the table as I searched for the phone.
The screen flashed one p.m.
A strangled curse tore from my throat. I sat bolt upright, my heart pounding against my chest, only to remember I didn’t have to work for the next seven days.
I exhaled and flopped back onto my pillow. Making three-quarter pay for a week was a problem, but not one that was insurmountable. I’d run an online sale. That should quickly make up the difference.
When my limbs were fully functional, I rolled over and pushed myself out of bed. It might be one in the afternoon, but that did not mean I’d bypass coffee.
I didn’t even like myself when I wasn’t caffeinated.
The moment I stepped out of the bedroom, Edmund’s voice sounded.
“Alex! You slept far longer than usual. Are you alright?”
“Cord-cutting ritual.” I grimaced at the hoarseness in my voice. “It took longer than usual.”
Edmund said nothing for a long moment. “The Archangel had difficulty?” Disapproval rang in his voice. He didn’t understand why a natural witch would use high magic. No matter that it was the only spell I practiced from that particular magic group.
I shook my head. “He said Beckett’s energy was strange and the ritual would take longer.”
Edmund made a thoughtful noise. “Interesting. Did he say anything else?”
I shrugged. “He started the ritual right after.” There was no need to tell him about the calling card or how my muscles were sore. Edmund and I weren’t close. Not exactly. How could we be? He was an invisible entity of unknown origin.
“I’d be interested to hear of any others you meet as well.”
I blinked. “Why?”
“For my mental repository. I store all the new info there.”
“Like a creepy card catalog?”
Edmund’s sigh made me laugh.
“After I get dressed, I’m going down to the basement for a little while. If you need anything, flicker the lights.”
“Very well.” His presence disappeared.
Once I’d taken a quick shower and looked halfway decent, I grabbed an apple from the fruit bowl and went downstairs. Witchcraft was hard on the body sometimes. All the squinting and hunching over bottles and bowls resulted in poor posture if you didn’t take steps to prevent it.
I munched on the apple, tossing the core into the small trashcan when I was finished.
The room still held some angelic energy, so I opened the fireplace flue, sprinkled salt all over the floor, and swept the area out with my besom.
When the atmosphere only held my energy, I pulled the pretty blue and gray rug over the etched circle and unrolled my yoga mat to stretch.
Half an hour later, I felt worlds better. After adding some notes into the notebook I kept in my locked spell table, I refreshed some of my herb supply and tended the others I had growing hydroponically in the back storage area.
Gardening this way wasn’t ideal, but I couldn’t grow certain things outside because of nosy neighbors. After getting a visit from the police questioning my use of salvia, I’d moved most of my more questionable herbs and plants inside.
If someone sicced the police on me over salvia—which I was only growing because it was pretty—I had no doubt they’d send the SWAT team over if they saw the nightshade.
My fingers brushed over hemlock and henbane, belladonna and mandrake.
I tended the datura in the corner and harvested a few seed pods.
The foxglove hated being grown inside the most, and if it didn’t start showing improvement soon, I might have to build a greenhouse outside. My neighbors would love that.
I added a little fertilizer to the pot and murmured some words of comfort. The flowers tilted toward me, brushing my fingers with their pretty bell-shaped blossoms. I collected some of the spent blooms and tossed them into my mortar and pestle.
By the time I finished puttering around, I blinked and glanced at my cell phone.
“Six o’clock!” My stomach growled in the affirmative.
I hadn’t eaten anything except the apple today and had nothing in the fridge to cook.
“Edmund!” I called after I’d locked up and come back upstairs. “I’m running out for a bite!”
“Are you sure that’s wise? Addy warned you to stay home.”
“I’m an adult and not without protection.”
“Yes, but a witch is no match for a vampire, Alex.”
I glared at the ceiling. Not quite true. Certain types of witches could kick a vampire’s ass from here to Colorado. But since I was technically a hedgewitch, I understood what he meant. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Physicality-wise, Beckett will best you every time. You have only slightly above average strength. Hyenas have one of the strongest bite forces in the entire animal kingdom at approximately 1000 PSI, but that power pales in comparison to a vampire bite.”
I frowned. “Was the hyena comparison really necessary?”
“Only to prove my point.”
“I can’t imagine I’ll ever get to experience a hyena’s bite force, but sure. I am not without tricks. More importantly, I won’t let him make me a prisoner in my own home.” I shrugged on an oversized cardigan, slid on some sneakers, and grabbed my purse. “Plus, I really want some potstickers.”
Edmund snorted. “Only the young would be willing to die for mediocre takeout.”
“Says the man who’s never tasted Young Palace dumplings!” I wiggled my fingers and scooped up the keys from the bowl by the front door. “Back in a bit.”
Edmund’s sigh was so aggrieved, I grinned.
Edmund was wrong. I was willing to die for some delicious dumplings.
Stuffed to the gills, I leaned back in my seat and did some people watching.
Texas was a weird state, and I assumed it had only got weirder since magic was introduced twenty-five years ago.
Just like with the human laws, each state tackled their own laws concerning magic.
Some states had lax laws, allowing public displays of magic, dark or light, and didn’t prevent magical brawls from breaking out in town squares.
Texas? Not so much. I always thought our state representatives only allowed magic because they couldn’t stop it. How could they when vampires and shifters and all kinds of other things that went bump in the night could devour them where they stood?
Witch couples walked hand in hand down the sidewalk, balls of magic floating above their heads to light their way. Pixies streaked through the air, swooping and diving through the pedestrians, their high-pitched giggles lending a joyous note to the already upbeat atmosphere.
An occasional wolf prowled past, eyes bright with awareness as it patrolled the block, ensuring any mischief makers stayed away.
I rarely went out at night, usually choosing to bury my head in books and magic, but as I watched the bustling city, I felt a tug of sadness for allowing myself to miss so much.
Public magic was allowed, provided it stayed within a very specific range of permissible spells.
No duels, no “dark” magic or spells, which included much of what I did in my private basement, no healing spells for anything more than a small cut (wouldn’t want to accidentally take a cut from a pharmaceutical CEO’s pocket), and absolutely no compulsion spells.
Considering vampires were walking compulsion spells, that last one was mostly ignored.
Everyone tonight was well-behaved, and magic or mundane crime was not usually an issue in this area. Laughter and conversation trickled around me, magic fizzing in the air, harmlessly brushing against my hair and skin.
Even before magic was forced into the public eye, Texas was broken into regions where weird was either welcomed, ignored, or shooed out the door with shotguns and four-wheeled drive trucks.
I lived in the part where weird was mostly ignored. Humans mingled with supernaturals, and if someone happened to disappear into thin air, people would blink and pretend like absolutely nothing out of the ordinary had just happened.
We had the believers, those who seamlessly integrated with our kind. Those people were usually not Texas natives, though we had the occasional outlier. The ones who tried the shotgun antics were slammed with a memory spell and strongly encouraged to put down roots elsewhere.
I was one of the lucky ones. My type of magic was considered harmless.
I had no natural enemies, as long as I didn’t go waving my illegal apothecary around, and many people sought out my services for simple things such as salves for pesky rashes that wouldn’t go away or bath oils and salts.
I didn’t mind helping out, but I charged for my services.
I’d been in this part of Texas for a few months now, but had no close friends, only acquaintances. I didn’t date for a variety of reasons—all of which I tried never to think about for fear the memories would drag me back into the dark—and the lack of friends meant my social life was nonexistent.
Most days, I didn’t mind, but today, sitting on the restaurant’s patio on this unseasonably cool spring evening, I wished I had someone to talk to.
I had no self-pity. Having no friends was my own fault.
Trust was something I didn’t believe in all that much—a fanciful word used to disarm you before someone went in for the kill.
If I had no friends, I had no one who could betray me.
One of the last memories of my mother swam to the forefront of my mind.
She’d come home one evening bruised and shaking, and when I asked questions, she’d taken my face in her hands and said simply, “Some things are worth fighting for, darling. One day soon, I will tell you everything.” She’d kissed my forehead, her comforting scent of honey and jasmine curling around me, and smiled.
When I woke up the next morning, she was gone.