Chapter 12 #2
I almost grinned like a mustache-twirling villain. Because making her angry meant she still cared—about my untimely death, probably—but I wasn't picky. Progress was progress.
That was when I knew I’d hit rock bottom.
Actually, wait.
Valerie had dropped something else on my desk. The silver envelope sat on top of the case file. A Christmas card? I snatched it up, tearing the flap open like a kid raiding their stocking on Christmas morning. My gaze flicked to the doorway to make sure no one was watching.
I pulled out the card, already bracing for reindeer in hula skirts or snowmen trying to get suntans.
“Crap,” I muttered, shoulders sinking as I took an emotional wallop to the solar plexus.
Happy Anniversary!
To the one who showed me what love (disinterest) looks like.
Besides crossing out love and replacing it with her own choice word, Valerie had left a note:
They don’t make accidental anniversary cards. Clearly, it’s an untapped market. One year down. One to go.
— Your wife (Ms. Spellman)
And that was rock bottom.
I tossed the card onto my desk and raked a hand over my face. The ache behind my ribs felt like a dagger dipped in acid. Was I supposed to get her a card?
The cheerful imaginary elf on my right shoulder shouted, “Yes—you idiot!” while the grumpy one on my left flipped her retreating back a rude gesture and grumbled something about not being a mind reader.
Neither was helpful.
The traditional first-anniversary gift was paper, so I supposed the card was fitting. I was lucky she hadn’t cursed me with a thousand papercuts.
But that was the thing. She couldn't curse me if she tried.
I knew her secret.
She’d lost her magic. Or, at the very least, it wasn’t working as it should.
I’d stumbled onto that fact by accident during a lunch break last month. She’d appeared a block ahead of me, glancing over her shoulder like she was being followed. In the end, she kind of was—by me.
She’d slipped inside a magic shop, and I’d lingered by the window, watching the shopkeeper package a pair of heartstone crystals.
Witches usually only bought heartstones when they were sick.
My grandmother once bought one when she had the flu.
She’d called it the supernatural version of chicken soup.
But sometimes, it was simply because their magic was fluctuating.
It all made sense then: the way her spell had fizzled at the luau, her hunt for the wishing waterfall, and the drive that never seemed to stop.
I should have reported her. Matt would’ve taken her badge right there on the street and sent her belongings home in a box. If you’re not at your best, you’re out. Rules are rules, he used to say; a carbon copy of my grandfather.
But I couldn’t do it.
I’d been there. My magic used to waver all the time, dulled by sleepless nights and, once, from too much tequila.
Now, that had been a crazy night.
Pretty sure there was still a mug shot of me floating around somewhere after I got caught climbing the city’s hundred-foot Christmas tree to fix the broken star.
Some say I’d saved Christmas. The arresting officer said it was a misdemeanor.
But back then, I laughed it off and never bothered to fix the problem, knowing my magic would eventually right itself.
These things happened. The stress agents were under, the constant pressure to perform miracles, and the cases that hit too close to home; they all took a toll. And sometimes, the cost showed up in our spells. We should support agents instead of punishing them for the hazards of the job.
I would have told her that if we were speaking about anything deeper than the weather. But if I was being honest, I was nervous about making waves so early in my position. Valerie felt like she needed to hide her vulnerabilities, and I needed to hide that I wasn’t like my family and never would be.
The thought sat heavy in my chest, right where Valerie’s anniversary card had dug a hole.
This was already shaping up to be the worst Christmas ever, and if I looked ahead to next year, it was an even bigger winner. I’d be secretly divorced.
I dropped my head into my hands with a muttered curse. Great job, Delaney. You’ve got a cold marriage, and more paperwork under your tree than presents. Maybe there’s a kid on crutches named Tim you can adopt just to make his life miserable, too.
With a mocking laugh, I reached for the case file Valerie had left on my desk and flipped open the cover.
I was curious about what she’d picked. If I had to guess, it would be some Romeo-and-Juliet spinoff where she mixes a love potion instead of poison and serves it to the dueling families at Christmas dinner.
But my eyes widened as I read through the file. Of all the cases collecting dust in the basement, leave it to Valerie to pick the hardest one when her magic was unstable.
There was a reason this case was cold. It shouldn’t have even been in the log. Leadership had scrubbed it from the system years ago.
I scanned the list of agents who’d already tried to solve it: everyone had either missed the Christmas Eve deadline or ended up traumatized. Some both. Then there was the agent who’d landed in the hospital with a broken leg and a concussion. She didn’t know her name for a solid week.
All because of that stupid key. The agency shouldn't have offered it, and now Valerie wanted it. She was willing to risk everything for the wish it granted.
That shouldn’t have bothered me as much as it did.
I wanted out, too. I did. And if I kept saying it, maybe one day, I'd even believe it.
But ever since that retreat, something had shifted for me.
Not that it mattered, since Valerie was literally counting down the days until we were stricken from the record.
What did matter was that icicles would form in the tropics before I signed off on this. I wouldn’t send my enemy—let alone my wife—into that haunted inn.
I frowned. Weird that those two titles were one and the same.
She’ll go even if you say no.
That blasted elf on my shoulder was back, and unfortunately, right.
She’d get herself hurt or end up possessed by nightmares.
Maybe even actually possessed. Who knew what that ghost was really after?
Probably a human host who liked heels, holiday leggings, and iced mochas while complaining about the cold.
I cursed under my breath. If Valerie wanted an enchanted key to undo our magical mistake, then fine. Consider it my anniversary gift.
At least ending our marriage early would stop the mailroom from filling up with couples-resort advertisements. We could finally go back to our regularly scheduled rivalry, and I could stop losing sleep wondering what it would be like if our accidental marriage was the real thing.
“Guess I’m spending Christmas in a Victorian death trap,” I said, pulling the requisition form toward me and adding my signature under hers.
I’d wanted a case, and now I had one.