What's a Witch to Do?: A Midnight Magic Mystery (17 page)

“Can’t wait,” I say with a smile. The man made dinner. If this were a hundred years ago, I’d swoon. Instead, I gaze down at my niece. “Is your sister in the backyard?”

“She’s upstairs. With the door locked,” Cora whispers. “She won’t let me in.”

I look at Adam, who nods. “She’s been up there since we got home.”

“Is she okay? Did something happen?”

“She wouldn’t say,” Adam says.

Great. I wanted to postpone this conversation until I had at least three working brain cells, but as always I’m not that lucky. I smile down at Cora. “Hey, can you do me a favor? Will you paint me two shelves before dinner? Gotta hurry though.”

“Okay,” she chirps before running off.

“Good luck,” Adam says to me before following her out.

The door is still closed and locked when I get there. “Sophie?” I ask as I lightly knock. There’s no answer. “It’s Aunt Mona. May I come in?” Still nothing. “Hon, you need to let me in. We gotta talk.” Silence. “Fine. I’m unlocking this door and coming in now.” I try the unlocking spell, but she must have a counter-spell on. Luckily I had plenty of practice the old-fashioned way when Debbie was a teenager. With the aid of a bobby pin from my room, I get open the sucker in thirty seconds.

My ten-year-old troublemaker lays on her bed with a book in her hands and ankles crossed. I’m so not buying the little angel show before me. “Why didn’t you open the door?”

“I want to be alone. I’m reading.”

I step in and shut the door. “Well, I just wanted to check on you. See how school was.”

“It was fine,” she snips. “Can I read now?”

I thought I’d have three more years before I had to deal with a moody teenager. Got an early bloomer on my hands. I’d rather tangle with the demon. I sit on the bed next to her, and she tenses a little. “Are you still scared about the demon? Because the whole town—”

“I don’t want to talk about it, okay? I just want to read.”

I lie down beside her like Daddy used to do with me so I can hold her, but there’s something off about the pillow. It’s too lumpy. “What is this?” I ask. Sophie’s eyes grow with fear as I reach under, pulling out two books, three charms, and a small mortar and pestle bowl used to grind herbs. There are herbs in there, but I can’t tell what kinds. “What are you doing with all this?”

“I … nothing.”

Both books are on black magic from Granny’s collection. “What were you making? Something from one of these books? Sophie—”

“It was just a potion so you could freeze the demon, I swear.”

“Sophie, you shouldn’t be making something so dangerous or even reading these books. It’s unsafe.”

“But I have to protect you and Cora! You don’t know how to do these!”

“And you do?” Her mouth snaps shut. Her eyes grow even wider from fright. “Honey, I know you don’t like talking about what happened with your Mom, but—”

“I don’t want to talk about it.”

“Hon, it might help—”

“I don’t want to talk about it!” she screeches before shoving me. “Get out! Get out!”

I’m so shocked by her vehemence, I obey. “Okay. I—I’m going.”

She flops onto her side so she’s facing the wall with her back to me. I collect the contraband and slink out of the room, shutting the door behind myself. That did not go well. With a sigh I retreat into my bedroom, shut the door, and fall into bed. That zapped the last of my energy and then some. I rub my gummy eyes to clear them.

Goddess, it’s worse than I thought. That girl is traumatized to hell, they both are. Cora still wets the bed, Sophie once or twice too, usually after night terrors. Until about three months ago, one or both spent most nights in my bed. I tried the therapy route after half a month of straight night terrors, but Sophie barely uttered a word to the woman, and Cora just drew pictures of butterflies and flowers. They were both relieved when I told them they didn’t have to go back. I’m so out of my depth here, and helpless is not something I do well.

After a scorching shower to wash the day away, I blow dry my hair then braid it for tonight’s escapade. Then comes the wardrobe. All black from tips to toes doesn’t suit me, but a night in jail would suit me even less. Adam and Cora are still hard at work in the backyard while rice boils on the stove. There’s sawdust all over the floor and counters, so I sweep before setting the table. The timer rings just as I fill the last glass with apple juice. The saw stops outside—gotta be impressed by werewolf hearing—and a second later Adam appears at the back door.

I hold up my hand to stop him. “Wait. I just cleaned.”

He glances at himself and chuckles. “Oh.” He takes a few steps back. “Cora, watch this.” He shakes like a dog, making a funny sputtering noise when he does, dust flicking off.

“You’re silly,” Cora giggles.

“Better?” he asks me.

“No.” I wet a kitchen towel and step outside. Cora is still on the ground with her paintbrush, a wide grin on her cute face. “Here,” I say, handing him the towel. As he wipes his face and arms, I brush off his hair and shoulders. A man’s hair should not be this soft. “You are so messy!”

“It’s a gift,” he says with a smile.

Our eyes lock as I smile back. He has a wonderful smile. Nice eyes too, a little on the bug-eyed side but so were Daddy’s. I feel the first of the butterflies, which is usually followed by blushing, so I look away with a chuckle. “There. Now you’re presentable.”

“Thank you, ma’am,” he says with a tiny nod. “Better get the chicken.” With another bright smile my way, he walks inside. Oh hell, there’s the blushing.

“Adam’s funny,” Cora says.

He’s something alright. “Come on, you need to wash up too.” As Adam carves the chicken on the counter, I shout, “Sophie, dinner!” before washing Cora in the sink.

We sit as Adam dishes out the chicken. “Is Sophie coming down?” he asks, hovering over her plate.

“Don’t know,” I say with a sigh.

“Let me try.” He hands me the platter and walks out. Hope he has better luck.

I finish serving, and Cora and I wait to start eating until everyone is seated. Adam steps in a minute later. “She coming?” I ask.

“Only if you promise not to talk about the you-know-what.”

“Fine.”

A miserable Sophie steps around Adam, taking her seat, eyes averted. Adam sits next to her, and we exchange a glance that I hope translates into “Thank you.” He smiles and nods.

We all eat this indescribably delicious dinner in silence for a few seconds. What a group we are. Across from me is a dusty werewolf, to my right is a paint-covered six-year-old, and to my left is a sullen-beyond-her-years ten-year-old, and I look like Natasha the fat spy.

Adam must have some Southern in him because, like a gentleman, he takes it upon himself to ease the tension. “What do you think? Taste okay?”

“It’s wonderful,” I say. “What do you call it?”

He glances at Cora. “Beer butt chicken.”

Cora giggles. “I knew it.”

Adam and I smile at one another before he turns his attention to Miss Misery. “Sophie, do you like my beer butt chicken?” he asks.

“It’s okay,” she says, still not looking up.

“You know the secret?” He pauses, leaning toward Cora. “The butt.”

Her high-pitched laugh brings a huge grin to my face. There is nothing better than a child’s laugh.
Nothing.

“You’re gross,” Sophie says.

“A lesson on us boys, little one. Telling us we’re gross is a compliment. We take great pride in our grossness. I am quite proud of my ‘Best Belcher’ trophy at home.”

“Whatever,” she mutters.

I don’t know how she does it but that one word drags all the mirth out of the room. Adam shrugs. He tried. I smile sympathetically. Goddess bless this man. My turn. “So how was school? Sophie, did you have play practice?”

“Yeah,” she says, taking a bite.

“I can’t wait to see it. Everyone’s going to be there: Tamara, Clay, Aunt Debbie, Greg.”

“Why? I only have two lines.”

“Because we’re all proud of you.”

She doesn’t say a word, just picks at her food like an anorexic teenager.

“I watched a video on the planets today,” Cora says. “I like Neptune, it’s pretty. Adam, what’s your favorite?”

“I’m partial to Mars myself. I like Martians.”

“There are no such things as Martians,” Sophie says.

“Well, people think there are no such things as werewolves and witches, and here we are,” I point out. “I have faith in Martians as well.”

“Then you’re stupid,” Sophie says.

My breaking point has officially been reached. I toss down my fork. “Okay, I have had just about enough of your mouth.”

“Then send me away like you wanted to,” the girl snarls.

“I didn’t want to … it seemed like a … I am not sending you away!”

“Only because Adam told you not to! What happens when he leaves?”

“I’m not sending you anywhere!”

She’s not listening. She leaps out of her chair and scampers out. Wonderful. I follow behind, reaching her as she’s about to leave the living room. I grab her arm to stop her, but she yanks it away. “Go away! I hate you!” I try to pull her into a hug, but she flails around, smacking my face a few times on accident. “You don’t love us! You’re just like them!”

“I’m not! Just stop. Stop!” I get a good grip this time and get her into my arms. “Calm down, honey. Calm down.” I envelop her, stroking her hair and kissing it. Her body relaxes as the seconds pass. “I’m sorry, okay? I’m sorry. I wasn’t thinking clearly this morning. Even grown-ups mess up sometimes, okay? You and your sister aren’t going anywhere. Ever. This is your home. Always will be. No matter what, okay? I promise. I promise.”

“You promise?”

“On my life.”

This is what she wanted to hear because those small arms wrap around my waist, hugging me back. “I’m sorry I called you stupid. You’re not. You’re real smart.”

I kiss her again. “Apology accepted, if you accept mine. I’m sorry I scared you.”

“I forgive you.”

With a smile, I lift up her head and kiss her nose. “I have the best nieces ever, you know that?” I kiss her nose again. Her reluctant smile fades back to apprehension. “You still feel a little bad?”

“A little,” she admits.

“Then you know what we must do.” I pull her off me and walk to the iPod player.

“No, not that,” she whines.

“Oh, stop it. You love it.”

Mommy started this tradition with Daddy, who kept it going after she died. Whenever us girls fought or were down in the dumps, she’d turn on the music and make us dance until all our tension or aggravation was gone with the wind. Worked like a charm bag. Some of my best memories are of all four of us cutting loose like we were having seizures. I carried on the silliness with Debbie and now the girls. Family tradition is most important.

I select Kenny Chesney’s “Ain’t Back Yet.” It always makes me want to dance. As the guitar riff begins, I start grooving to the beat, swaying my hips and head, and lip syncing like a
mo-ron.
But it sure is fun. I take Sophie’s wrists, lift up her arms, and start moving them around like a puppeteer until she does it on her own. A second later she’s mimicking me, giggling at the stupidity. It’s catching.

“I want to dance!” Cora says as she sprints in. She leaps onto the couch and starts bouncing while shaking her arms around like a monkey. I think dance camp this summer for her.

We have an audience. Adam leans against the wall, the widest grin on his face as he watches us crazies. I wiggle my finger at him to come to me. He does, his shoulders bouncing to the music as he grooves toward me. After a second our bodies get in sync, pivoting, gyrating, hell even laughing in time to each other at the music. He takes my hands and moves my arms like a bicycle, forcing me to bend back as his body presses toward mine then brings me up again. He breaks away, and I bust a gut as he “raises the roof” while puckering his lips like a fish. Damn is he adorable. Just as the song ends, he takes my hand again, spins me away, then toward him again. At the last beat, he dips me as if we were in an old movie, our grinning mouths an inch from each other while panting as if we’ve just … hell’s bells.

The song ends, and we just stay like that for a second. I realize his chest is pressed against mine, and the only thing holding me upright is his strong arm around my waist. Our smiles slowly falter as our eyes meet. A large jolt of I-don’t-know-what cascades over me, and boy does it feel wonderful like a warm rain. He might feel it too—or it could be that the most romantic song ever, “Somebody” by Reba McEntire starts playing—because I swear there’s lust in those baby blues. My breath catches. I think I want to kiss him. Okay, I
definitely
want to kiss him. Among other things. His eyes read mine as I read his, and I suddenly feel naked. Exposed. Crap.

I look away and press myself up before pushing him away. “Can’t dance to this song,” I chuckle nervously. I leap away to shut off the stereo. I give myself a second to compose myself, and plant a smile on my face before turning to face the girls. “Well, I feel better. How about we finish dinner, huh?” I smooth my hair and walk away.

What the hell was that?

• Operation: Hoochie House
  

Between cleaning up dinner, getting the girls to bed, and preparing for tonight’s B&E, there isn’t time to obsess over whatever happened in that living room. I all but blink, and it’s time for Adam to leave on his date. He pokes his freshly showered head into my office to let me know he’s leaving. I don’t look up from my scrying but nod. This isn’t working. I need something of the demon’s in the pendulum to locate it. Stupid idea.

For some reason, when I hear the front door shut downstairs, I relax a little. I avoided eye contact at dinner and made it a point to stay away from him after that. He probably didn’t even notice in the living room or at dinner. It was all in my head. Besides, there are more important things to worry about than momentary lust. I have to go commit a felony.