Magic and the Modern Girl (2 page)

“Mojito therapy,” I said.

“I am already there,” she replied, and I remembered that the bakery had to be hotter than the library, even more uncomfortable in the middle of Washington’s August humidity. I could picture her blowing her honey-colored bangs out of her eyes as she asked, “Your air conditioner or mine?”

I looked at my watch. It was already a quarter to five. Melissa’s underpowered window unit would take hours to cool down her second-story apartment. “Mine. I’m off work in fifteen minutes.”

“See you there.”

We hung up our phones simultaneously. And then, there was nothing left for me to do but turn off the power. Lose the entire afternoon’s work. I sighed. Monday would be another day, and I could write about the James River plantations then. Maybe even faster than I had today. With more brilliant observations. Or at least a better flow of thought.

I made short work of straightening my desk, then ran a clean rag over the coffee bar. The Peabridge had been quiet as a tomb all afternoon—most of Washington took vacation during the late summer. I waved at my boss but did not take time to poke my head into her office; Evelyn could snare me into chatting for hours.

At least my commute was short. One brick path through the colonial garden, and I was slipping my key into the lock, opening the cottage’s door onto my living room of hunter-green sofas and a braided rug. I kicked off my shoes and loosened the ties on my dress, easing my whalebone stays as I made a beeline for the freezer.

A pint of New York Super Fudge Chunk waited for me. Ben and Jerry were calling my name, promising to ease my frustration, to soothe my savage brow. They were whispering sweet comforts about my computer woes, offering up smooth, creamy sympathy.

Except the freezer was empty.

Oh, a few partly evaporated ice cubes sat forlorn in their trays. And a couple of chicken breasts were camouflaged beneath coats of ice crystals. But Ben and Jerry were nowhere to be found.

Until I checked the trash can.

The pint container was licked clean.

“Neko!”

I don’t know why I even bothered to say my familiar’s name. Ever since I had awakened him, releasing him from his magical form as a huge statue of a black cat, he had plagued me with his saucy attitude. Nothing was private in my cottage—nothing was secret in my life. And my kitchen was most violated of all.

It was a wonder I still spoke to the guy. Actually, truth be told, we’d spent a good part of the past two months
not
speaking to each other. Even our Post-it notes had gotten shorter, more terse:

Neko, if you’re going to drink the last of the milk, please leave a note on the fridge so that I can buy more. Love, Jane.

Jane, I wouldn’t drink that blue water if it was the last dairy item on earth. I poured it down the drain to spare you the horror. Buy a gallon of whole milk. Love, Neko.

N—Don’t touch the leftover chicken; it’s my lunch for tomorrow. J.

J—So sorry. Only saw the “don’t” after Jacques and I had a little post-romp sustenance. Kisses. N.

Do NOT eat the caramel ice cream.

Jacques ate it, not me.

NO!!!!!

Whoops!

It was that
whoops
that got me. I mean, anyone could have seen the
NO
note I’d attached to the plate of Melissa’s cream puffs. She’d brought them as a special treat one morning, when she’d carried in the library’s standing order of sweets. I’d written my warning with letters three inches high, underlined them three times, and added five exclamation marks for entirely unnecessary emphasis. But obviously, I should have added a French translation, just for security. Just so that my nervy familiar could not (again) place the blame on his French lover, on poor, besotted Jacques.

Those cream puffs had been the last straw. I couldn’t share my little cottage with Neko and Jacques any longer. It was time that I sent my familiar out into the world—at least while we weren’t working magic together. He could find his own milk and chicken and—God save the fish market—tuna.

He would still be bound to me magically. He’d still come when I summoned him to work a spell. He’d just be free to pursue his own entertainment the rest of the time. Win-win, right? Especially since I hadn’t found the time to cast a spell in ages.

So, rather than mourn my missing New York Super Fudge Chunk, I told myself to celebrate. After all, that was the last time Neko would raid my freezer. Ever. I’d almost convinced myself of that rationale when Melissa sailed through my front door, swinging a net bag of limes and a carefully wrapped forest of mint, freshly cut from her extensive herb garden. She balanced a plate in her other hand, carefully covered with tin foil.

“What’s this?” I asked, relieving her of the burden.

“Lemon Pillows.” Citrus-flavored whipped cream cheese, cradled in crunchy meringue. Perfect for the beastly hot weather.

“Thank God you’re here,” I said.

“Go change out of those clothes, and then we can talk.”

I took her up on the offer, stripping off my colonial attire in short order. One black T-shirt and a pair of well-worn shorts later, I was almost feeling human again. Almost.

“You are a goddess,” I said, returning to the kitchen, where cocktail construction was already well under way. I wolfed down a Pillow, moaning a little as the sweet-tart lemon flavor melted across my tongue.

Melissa shrugged. “I couldn’t find our usual pitcher, but I figured this would work.” She held up a glass bottle that had formerly held orange juice. She’d already managed to pour fresh-squeezed lime juice from a measuring cup into the narrow neck, and she was coaxing cut mint leaves in, as well.

“Oh, the pitcher should be right—” I cut myself off as I opened up the cupboard to the right of the sink. No pitcher. No clear glass with brightly colored fish on the side. “Neko,” I said.

“Today’s the day?” Melissa asked.

“And not a moment too soon. He was supposed to get all his stuff out of the basement this morning. Jacques helped him while I was at work.”

“It’ll be strange around here for a while. No roommate, after two straight years?”

“I welcome the strangeness,” I said. I squatted in front of the sink, reaching to the very back of the storage space for my bottle of rum. After a certain episode of
The Not-So-Mystery of the Disappearing Vodka
around Independence Day, I’d taken to hiding all of my alcohol behind my cleaning supplies. I flattered myself that my strategy had worked. In reality, I think that Neko and Jacques just hadn’t had a taste for hard liquor in the past month.

“You’re going to be lonely. You should plan on getting out. Doing stuff.”

I recognized that note in my best friend’s voice. I watched as she glugged rum into the glass bottle. “What did you have in mind?” I asked dryly.

“Nothing much.” I’d recognize that air of breezy manipulation anywhere.

“Just—” I prompted, before turning to the fridge for soda water. Fortunately, my stock had not been touched. Jacques would not let anything as common as generic soda water touch his Gallic lips. He required Perrier at the very least.

“Just-a-weekend-seminar-on-yoga, focusing-on-the-animal-poses-to-bring-you-into-greater-harmony-with-the-natural-world.”

“Melissa….” I sighed. My best friend, in addition to being a stellar baker and a shrewd businesswoman, was more flexible than anyone I’d ever met, and she had the best sense of balance this side of an Olympic gymnastics team.

“It’ll be fun!”

“For you, maybe.” I pouted and took down two glasses.

“Come on, Jane. The class will focus on inner balance. Peace. All the tools you need to live in harmony with your fellow man.”

“My fellow man is moving out.” I gestured toward the basement and Neko’s now former lair. “I’m not living with anyone. In harmony or otherwise.”

“Rock-paper-scissors,” Melissa said.

Melissa and I had cast rock-paper-scissors over disputed matters for years, ever since we were little girls. I’m pretty sure that I won half the time, but it seemed like she always got the upper hand when it mattered. Not that there was any way to cheat. Unless…No, if there’d been a way to harness my witchy powers to win at the childish game, I would have figured that out long ago.

“Melissa—”

“Am I going to have to Friendship Test this?”

Wow. She was really serious. A Friendship Test was the ultimate power play in our relationship. We could Friendship Test the last bite of chocolate cheesecake—the person who called the test got to spear the final perfect morsel (although even then, we usually ended up splitting dessert). We could Friendship Test an evening, dragging each other out in a rainstorm or on a slippery winter night.

But we didn’t call Friendship Test lightly, Melissa and I. She really wanted me to go to yoga class. She must be certain that it would be good for me. Or good for her. Or good for both of us together.

No reason to make her waste a Friendship Test. I sighed and held out my palms, curling my right fingers into a fist. “One,” we said together, and I couldn’t help but let a smile twist my lips. “Two. Three.”

I cast paper.

At the precise same instant, Melissa cast scissors.

I shrugged in resignation. At least I owned a heating pad. I’d certainly need it after the class. “When’s the torture?”

Melissa beamed. “A week from Sunday.”

“Great,” I said, without the slightest hint of enthusiasm.

Melissa filled two glasses, taking the time to set a whole-leaf mint garnish on the edge of mine. “To animal yoga!” she exclaimed, raising her glass high.

“To animal yoga,” I echoed. At least the mojitos were perfect—icy and crisp, the lime balancing the sweetness of the rum. I swallowed again and felt a little of the tension ease from my shoulders. I complemented the mojito therapy with another Lemon Pillow. Then, I glanced at the calendar on my wall. “Wait! I can’t make it! I have mother-daughter brunch!”

“That’s
this
Sunday, isn’t it?”

Why did I share so much of my life with my best friend? It was ridiculous that she should know my schedule better than I did. But she was right. I had brunch with my mother and grandmother the first Sunday of every month—we’d started the get-togethers almost two years before, as my grandmother attempted to build ties between her “two favorite girls,” as she described Clara and me. I loved my grandmother without question—she had raised me, after all, taking in a scared and lonely four-year-old whose parents had died in a tragic car crash.

Except that my parents hadn’t died. They’d just split up. And neither of them had wanted the responsibility of caring for the daughter they’d brought into the world. My mother had scampered off to a series of New Age havens, seeking spiritual purity without looking back at me.

Until two years ago, when she had finally decided that she was ready to come back into my life. Our relationship was rocky at best—even if she carried the same witchy blood that pumped in my veins. She and my grandmother both.

In fact, Clara—I still wasn’t used to calling her
Mother
—had always had an affinity for crystals and stones; that’s probably what had drawn her to her previous home in Sedona. And she loved the coded magic of runes, the secret messages that were revealed when the symbols were cast.

“Oh,” I said to Melissa, and there was a tangled skein of recognition in the single word. “You’re right.”

Melissa laughed at my depressed tone. “Come on,” she said. “You’ll have a great time with them. Wasn’t Clara going to cast your star chart?”

I grimaced. Both my mother and grandmother possessed limited witchcraft skills; their powers had been substantially magnified in me, for reasons that weren’t at all clear to any of us. Clara, though, had an annoying tendency to embrace anything that sparkled with New Age hocus-pocus and she had taken to star charts with an astonishing vehemence. “That reminds me,” I said. “I told her I would give her my set of jade runes. She managed to mislay her Tyr and Nyd.”

Melissa eyed me over the edge of her own glass. “Tyr and Nyd?”

“The runes that stand for war and loss. I almost accused her of throwing them out on purpose. You know how she is about accepting grim reality.” Conforming to the expectations of the real world was
not
my mother’s strongest suit. “Anyway, I told her I’d give her my set, so that she can do complete castings. It’s not like I use them much, anyway.”

“When was the last time you used them at all?”

Melissa just sounded curious, but I felt a flash of guilt. My answer was defensive. “They’re just some stupid jade runes.”

“Hey, don’t get upset.” She sipped from her mojito, reminding me to take a therapeutic swallow of my own. “I know that you’ve been busy. It’s just that I don’t even remember the last time I saw David around here.”

David. David Montrose. My warder. He was my astral bodyguard, the man appointed to protect me in my witchy workings. Over the past two years, we’d had our ups (a couple of shared kisses) and our downs (his hidden past with a witch who had challenged me before the Coven).

“Did you guys have another fight or something?” Melissa asked, widening her eyes with mock innocence. She’d always liked David, and she thought that I should appreciate his guidance more than I did.

“No.” Blessed mojito lubricated my thoughts. “Not a fight. Just a sort of…drifting. I haven’t found time for witchcraft stuff for a while, with Evelyn on the warpath about the James River presentation, and mentoring the reference intern, and—”

“And a hundred and one other excuses.” Melissa’s tone brooked no protest. “You shouldn’t cut him out of your life like that.”

“I’m not cutting him out!” I heard the shrill note behind my words and eyed a third Lemon Pillow as a way to sweeten my tone. “Well, not exactly.”

I could still remember the compassion in his eyes, when he’d seen what a wreck I’d made of my dating life the year before. David’s sympathy unnerved me. Not that I liked his supercilious instruction any better.