A Dangerous Witch (Witch Central Series: Book 3)

A Dangerous Witch

by Debora Geary

Copyright 2014 Debora Geary

Fireweed Publishing Ltd

Dedication

To every reader

who gives Witch Central

room in their heart

and life beyond these pages.

And to Wes,

who found Moe’s names.

Chapter 1

She was so not a gardener.

Lauren looked at the slightly mangled peony under her hands and stifled a giggle.  The poor thing looked like Fuzzball had rolled on it.  Which was a possibility—the cat had an unreasonable liking for the flower beds. 

This had seemed like a good idea when the morning sun had streamed in the windows of their cottage and pulled her out of totally lazy sleep.  Their garden was more than passable—the green-thumbed denizens of Witch Central had long ago taken pity on Lauren and Devin and resurrected the tangle of weeds outside their home by the sea.

Some pretty blue flowers that might be zinnias waved their heads over by a ramshackle fence that had been fixed up enough to look charming instead of just run-down.  A mess of wildflowers in every color of the rainbow danced down a path that looked random from here, but traveled in an infinity symbol if you looked from just the right angle.  And a well-tended patch of dandelions and other things herbal and useful lived right outside the back door.

All cheerfully babysat by people who talked to the flowers by name and snickered in amusement when any of the cottage’s inhabitants tried to help.

Lauren grinned.  Maybe she’d discovered a latent stubborn streak this morning.  She was pretty sure she had the right tools for the job—the little hand shovel looked like it meant business, and the nice lady at the garden shop had assured her that even small children could plant peonies.

If the three that were in the ground were any indication, one hapless realtor probably needed to find some small children and get herself some lessons.

A giggle behind her signaled the end of morning solitude.  Lauren sent out a warm mind cuddle to greet her visitor.

Aervyn squiggled into view beside her, looking at the flowers with interest.  “Ginia says we’re not supposed to squish them like that.  Plants aren’t like fire trucks and stuff.  They’re fragile.”

Lauren laughed.  The earth witches had a lot of fairly remedial students to contend with.  “Maybe we could go to the thrift store and get a bunch of fire trucks to plant instead.”  A touch of whimsy—and one of the few places Aervyn actually liked to shop.

The eyes beside her brightened.  “Can we take Benny?  Uncle Jamie says Kenna keeps stealing all his favorite trucks.  Maybe we can help him find another one she won’t like.”

That was dubious.  And only an utterly insane aunt would take two boys fire truck shopping, especially these two boys.  Aervyn was going through a growth spurt again, and for some reason, it had made his magic a little prone to misfires.  And the entirely non-magical Benny was the fastest kid in six states. 

Lauren shook her head, amused, and put down her trowel.  Her sanity had been in doubt for a long time.  “Okay, superboy.  But you have to help me keep track of Benny.”  The two strongest mind witches in Berkeley ought to be able to keep sight of one speedy two-year-old.

Maybe.

Aervyn was already halfway back to the cottage.  “I can mindspeak Uncle Jamie and port Benny here, okay?”

The Sullivan family’s newest addition loved porting and worshipped the ground Aervyn walked on, so Lauren had no doubt he’d be here in seconds.

One fire truck field trip, coming right up.

And then she noticed Aervyn, silhouetted in the frame of the back door.  Not moving a muscle.

Lauren moved hers.  Fast. 
What’s going on?

Y
our crystal ball,
sent Aervyn quietly.
 Its name is Moe.  And it needs to talk to you.

-o0o-

Nell stood at her kitchen counter patiently squeezing lemon halves on the manual press, amused at her relegation to juicing duty.

Her girls were making lemonade.  Auntie Nat had finally shared her super-secret recipe, and three eleven-year-olds were bound and determined to master it.

So long as someone else squeezed the lemons.

Nell rolled her eyes at the pile of wrung-out lemon corpses on the counter.  Some enterprising witch needed to devise a juicing spell.  “How many of more of these do you think you need, oh lemonade goddesses?”

Mia giggled and bounded over for a quick survey.  “More.”

Shay poured another cup of sugar into the cavernous, steaming pot on the stove and contemplated the line of corpses more thoughtfully.  “That might be enough.  We could make a small batch and see.  Auntie Nat says it matters how strong the lemons are, so we have to let our taste buds tell us when it’s right.”

Ginia, doing something with sugar and grated lemon rind at the table, barely looked up.  “We can always send any extra juice to Aunt Moira.  She’s making lemon pudding tomorrow cuz Morgan likes it best.”

Nell stifled a grin.  Those answers entirely reflected the personalities of their owners.  She kept pressing lemons.  Morgan wasn’t the only one who liked lemon pudding.

And however much the juicer of lemons might complain, she was exactly where she wanted to be.

Nell loved the days right after school let out, with all the promises of summer calling sweet and strong.  Two and a half months of kids underfoot every hour of the day and night.  This year, they would greet summer for a while and then head off for a visit to Uncles Matt and Téo.  There were promises of rainforest bonfires and marshmallow roasts, and possibly a ride down a river or two.

It wouldn’t matter what they did.  Her kids loved the wilds of Costa Rica.  Magic lived deep there, alongside the monkeys and a landscape that looked utterly unlike California.

And if Nell and Daniel snuck off with the monkeys for a while, that would be okay too.

She snickered at herself.  The last time they’d tried that, the howler monkeys had taken issue with Daniel’s favorite baseball cap.  She didn’t speak howler monkey, but the air had clearly been ripe with insults.  Really, really loud ones.

Shay looked over, still stirring her pot on the stove.  “You look happy, Mama.”

Nell smiled back at her quiet, observant child.  “I am, cutie.  Think I can stop squooshing lemons now?”

Blue eyes danced a little brighter.  “No way.  I’ve seen you eat lemon pudding.”

Their laughter bubbled up easily and traveled through the kitchen.

Happiness, Walker style.

-o0o-

Lauren peered at her crystal ball’s depths.  “How do you know it has a name?”

Aervyn shrugged from his perch on the couch.  “It just does.  It has a big long one, too, but I can’t remember it.”

That was new.  Lauren eyed the orb. 
You have a name?

Nothing.

That figured.  Cantankerous hunk of glass.  “How come you think it needs to talk to me?”  It wasn’t doing its usual spitting-at-the-cat routine.  Fuzzball lay on the couch beside Aervyn, unconcerned and eyeing stray cookie crumbs.

“Can’t you feel it?”  Aervyn held out a crumb-laden finger to the cat.  “It’s kind of like how Kenna’s head feels right before she hiccups.”

Kenna had the kind of volcanic hiccups that could be heard and seen from a mile away.  And wonderboy was right—it did kind of make her mind feel explosive.  Lauren let her barriers down more and scanned the crystal ball.  Nothing.

She didn’t doubt superboy’s powers, however.  He regularly picked up things beyond anyone else’s reach.  Lauren laid a hand gently on the orb’s surface and channeled tightly. 
I’ll be back in a bit.  I need to go shop for fire trucks first.

A plea for understanding—and a quiet threat.  By unanimous agreement, they were all keeping Aervyn well clear of the orb when it spoke.

The surface warmed under her hand.

Lauren felt her mind wincing, even as she moved her body to shield boy and cat. 

Calm floated up her arm, even as the warmth intensified. 
Won’t hurt him.  Won’t talk to the boy.  Promised.

Whoa.  That was a way clearer connection than usual.  Lauren peered hard at the orb’s surface, streaked white between her fingers.  Milky and unmoving.

Name is Mohana Nitya Ratna Mandeep.
 Pride leaked from the ball—and something that felt almost like embarrassment.
 Was called so by he who made me.  Was remembering those days.  Boy heard.  Won’t hurt him.  Promised.

That was practically a speech.  And somewhere at the edges… a memory.  Faint.  Long robes and harsh landscapes.  Druids, maybe.  Or something almost Greek?  Lauren shook her head and tried to firm up the vague outlines.  History wasn’t her forte.  Maybe Moira would know.

Not important.  Very old.  Time that will not return.

Lauren had occasionally picked up hints of emotion from the orb in the past.  This was far stronger.  Sadness.  No—homesickness.  A traveler on the vast road of human history, longing for the simple place of its birth.

Is my job to be here.

Six simple words.  And they pierced something deep in the woman with her hand on the globe’s rounded surface.  Lauren felt her fingers brushing the orb.  Seeking to comfort.  And offered up the only thing she could think of. 
You have a name.  I will use it.
 Or whatever mangled version of the ancient tongue she could manage.

Pleasure flared. 
It is long.  The boy liked the short name.  You may use it if you like.

Moe. 
Lauren tried it on for size.
 The long one suits you.  But this will be easier.  Thank you.

Pleasure again.  And then sadness.  A traveler called back to duty.

Hell. 
You have a message. 
With this new level of connection, Lauren could feel the sense of responsibility shouldered—and the regret.

Yes.
 The orb shuddered.

Double-dipped hell.  Lauren shouldered her own responsibility. 
Tell me.  It’s my job to hear.

The image flowed up her arm as easily as the warmth had.  With fierce, painful clarity.  An orb that didn’t believe in pulling bandaids off slowly.