Fae Witch Chronicles Books 1 - 3 Read online

  CHAPTER 5

  When I get back to my apartment building, I'm not surprised to find there's a party going on. Despite it being a Tuesday night, lights blaze and music pounds out into the street. Of course, just because I can see and hear those things doesn't mean our neighbors can. The Cauldron—as those of us living in the old, brick building lovingly call our shared abode—features strategically placed charms. Those work nicely to buffer both sound and light, thus sparing our non-magical neighbors from our antics. Ostensibly, this is done out of consideration, since witches hardly keep regular hours. Really, it's more about avoiding complaints. The last thing we need is the police coming around and creating the need for us to relocate our little witch community.

  I approach the front steps to encounter yet another unique feature of our building. The troll. He appears brandishing his spiked club at the front door. And, as always, he quotes the Bridgekeeper from Monty Python’s Holy Grail. “Who would cross the Bridge of Death must answer these questions three, or the other side he see.”

  Despite how many times I've sighed tonight, each one feels fresh and true. This time, I heave out a sigh worthy of only the apartment building troll. “Okay, let's get this done,” I say.

  The troll stares at me, blinking slowly as he waits. Right, I’m off script.

  I try again. “Ask me your questions, Bridgekeeper. I'm not afraid.”

  The troll shifts his club from one hand to the other. “What is your name?”

  “Cassie Anderson.”

  “What is your quest?”

  “To get past your fat ass.”

  This isn't strictly on script, but it's close enough to keep going.

  “Who produced the most CDs in the 1990s?”

  Wow, good one. “Uh, I don't know. Maybe Prince?”

  “AOL, you idiot.”

  I bristle, but say nothing as the troll fades away. He's not real, of course, and we don’t really have to answer correctly. He’s just a ward put in place by our building manager, Shakeesha, who thinks the whole deal is hilarious. Enough so that we can’t enter the building without playing along when the troll appears, which is typically on a night when there’s a party going on. Sadly, I totally fell for it the first time, something my housemates still chuckle about.

  The party is on the first floor, which I pretty much guessed, inside the apartment shared by Lissette and Anna. Being social types, they host most of the parties in our building. They have something of an open door policy, tonight literally, allowing laughter and music to echo through the hallway. There’s also a combination of curious aromas wafting my way as I continue climbing the stairs. It strikes me as a mixture of licorice, cinnamon, and what? Maybe vinegar? No, more like acetone. No, that’s not it either. Boot polish? I just don’t know.

  As I get closer to the landing, I assume they must also be watching a movie. I’m pretty sure I hear Morgan Freeman, and then Steve Buscemi. I try to remember if they ever made a movie together, but then I hear Helena Bonham Carter yell, “What was he even thinking? He had my panties on his head!” Everyone bursts out laughing, although I’m pretty sure Helena Bonham Carter has never uttered that particular line. That’s when I put it together. They must be messing with that impersonation potion Lissette was talking about last week. Which also explains the strange smells.

  I clear the landing and keep heading up, glad I wasn’t noticed. At another time, I wouldn’t mind hanging out, but it’s already been a long, strange night. You’d think I’d be used to those by now, but there are times when I envy people who spend their days in safe cubes staring at computers, going home later to stare at TVs. Okay, maybe not often, but sometimes.

  I make it to the third floor, and I’m approaching my door when I see her at the end of the hall. You have to be kidding me. Tonight? Really? Is the stench demon and door troll not enough for one evening? Evidently not. I also have to seriously wonder if she ever bugs anyone else. I suppose it’s possible, but you’d think I’d have heard about it by now.

  Given that our apartment building has to be at least fifty years old, it stands to reason we’d have our share of ghosts. Most apartment buildings do since, naturally, more people living in a place also means more people dying there. And while witches are ninety percent more likely to notice ghosts than regular people, they often don’t react. To witches, seeing a ghost is like spotting a moth flitting through a room. You might mention it, but you also might not. It just isn’t that big of a deal. But if anyone other than me has seen this ghost wandering around, I have to wonder why she hasn’t come up. I mean, she’s just creepy.

  Once again, she stands in the same spot, wearing faded jeans and a denim jacket, with a bag slung over her shoulder. She has dark, brown hair cut in a pageboy style, with straight bangs and the sides curving around her face. She’s pretty, whoever she was, and she must have been around my age when she died. What’s weird—well, weird for a ghost being relative—is that she stands in a different version of this same hall. The carpet beneath her feet is tan, while below mine it’s dark green. The wall behind her is covered in fleur-de-lis wallpaper, while those around me are painted white. Yeah, strange. But none of that is what makes her creepy. Instead, it’s the way she mutely stares at me. She opens her mouth to speak, but then stops as if suddenly stricken. Her eyes, stretched wide, implore me to listen to words she can’t form. All of that is disturbing enough, but it’s the next part that keeps making me shudder. Suddenly, she goes completely pale, all color draining from her face. Her lips turn blue, and her outstretched fingertips bone white. She remains that way as she fades, as if locked in a permanent state of desperation.

  “Aren't you going to the party?”

  I jump, then wheel around to see Wendy emerging from her apartment. It takes me a moment to find my voice. “Party?”

  It's an idiotic thing to say, obviously, since we can both hear the music and laughter rising up the stairs.

  Wendy smiles, as always. She’s petite, blonde with big blue eyes, and has a consistently sunny disposition. Smiling is her default setting. She gestures down the stairs. “Lissette and Anna made a batch of penne pesto for everyone. And you know what's weird? I was just thinking yesterday how much I love a good pesto. Then, voila! Lissette says she's making penne pesto.”

  “Wow, that's so cool, Wendy.”

  As much as I like Wendy, that part about her drives me crazy. She's fully convinced that the universe is conspiring in her favor. Last week, it was the power outage when a truck knocked down a utility pole (she said she'd just been imagining spending a day unplugged) and the week before it was the blue sweater she accidentally brought home in her laundry (she swore she’d just imagined owning a sweater exactly like it). When I first met her, she said she’d been wondering about veil witch magic a few days before (which explained why I just moved in). I got curious and did some googling about Wendy's relentlessly optimistic outlook, and deduced that she suffers from pronoia. Well, I don't know that she suffers, exactly, but being completely the opposite of paranoid is actually a thing. Who knew?

  I glance down the hall, but the ghost is long gone, so it seems pointless going there now. Besides, it’s been the same way each time I’ve asked someone. So far, no one living here seems remotely aware of her.

  “Enjoy your dinner,” I say, and start heading toward my apartment.

  “Aren't you going to the party?”

  I turn around again. “Probably not. I’m kind of tired.”

  Wendy smiles. Naturally. “Okay, well, have a good night. And you will if you visualize it that way.”

  I dredge up a smile of my own. “Thanks, Wendy. I’ll try.”

  “Do or do not. There is no try.” Wendy’s sudden Yoda impression throws me off balance. I just didn’t see it coming.

  I nod. “Right, no more of that trying thing. I need to remember that. ”

  I’m not worried about insulting Wendy. God love her, she’ll just find a way to put a positive spin on it. I have to admit,
I briefly wonder if there’s a way to self-induce pronoia. I could definitely get into the universe conspiring in my favor, but something tells me I haven’t earned that paycheck yet.

  ~~~

  I enter my apartment and, yes, let out another sigh. Thankfully, one of relief this time at being home. And the three crisp bills in my pocket, along with my part-time gig at Grimoire, will help me hang onto the place for another month. Generally, Shakeesha is pretty forgiving if we run a little late with the rent. She understands that she's dealing with a building full of young witches and, like most people our age, we're still trying to work things out as far as careers go. However, unlike most people our age, we spend as much time sharpening our magic skills as earning money. One of the pitfalls of being a witch is that the allure of learning a new spell can easily win out against the prospect of another day spent pulling espresso shots or working retail. On the other hand, those who own the building expect to keep doing so, which means we’re required to pay our rent eventually.

  How an apartment building full of witches came to be in the first place, I can't say. All I know is that it’s connected with the Richmond coven, and has a longstanding tradition of functioning as basically a witch dorm. Thank heaven for that, since it's nearly impossible for us to fit in elsewhere without constant effort. All it takes is one forgetful moment of using levitation to retrieve dishes from a high shelf, or to float a chair across the room, and your disguise as a regular person is blown. All in all, witches are just better off living amongst witches, which also helps to keep our existence secret.

  My place is small, with just one bedroom, a combined living-dining area, and a miniature kitchen. So far, it's sparsely furnished too, with items mostly picked up at yard sales. The bedroom holds little more than the queen-sized bed my mother bought for me when I moved out. Yes, my leaving was a tearful event, considering I only lived with her for a few months after being missing for fifteen years. Still, we both knew that at twenty-six I could only stay for so long. Let's just say there were certain impracticalities involved. By that I mean sex, of course, but she was also worried each time I snuck out to hunt vampires. Go figure.

  I flop down on the sofa and stare into space for a minute or two before my eyes refocus on the pictures hanging on my wall. Those were provided by my sister and mother, who took the time to have them printed and framed as a housewarming gift. There's one of the three of us, another of just me and Autumn, then another of me and Phoenix taken at his family's farm. They chose not to include any from the past. There are no pictures of me and my sister as kids, or other family shots from years ago, none of my dead father. I miss seeing him there, but I get it. We've spent enough time feeling sad and we've experienced enough loss. The message being, now it's time to look forward.

  It's the picture of me and Phoenix that I find myself staring at now. It's a nice photo, taken on a sunny day, with the two of us beaming at the camera as our shoulders touch. It captures perfectly his genuine smile, his green eyes and the natural highlights of his strawberry-blonde hair. Of course, I can’t help but miss him. Technically, I lost my virginity to Phoenix. He was the first and only man I've had sex with in my actual body. Maybe I’m delusional, but I’ve managed to convince myself that Opal never used my body that way. It’s a bit of a stretch, I know. Could she have gone fifteen years without getting any? I know nothing about the sex lives of the Vamanec P’yrin, and I don’t want to know. But I’m guessing that fifteen years for them feels more like a week to us, since by coming here to snatch our bodies they’ve basically achieved immortality.

  Maybe it’s just wishful thinking on my part, but I tell myself I’d know somehow if she had, and certain physical signs supported my theory too. So, as far as I’m concerned, Phoenix was my first. That’s my story and I’m sticking to it.

  Yes, the sex was amazing. As in, hot, passionate and world-stopping. I know what they say, that the first time is usually a fumbling, awkward disaster, but that wasn’t the case. There were reasons for that, of course. For one thing, obviously it wasn’t the first time for Phoenix. It soon became evident that my striking necromancer friend had plenty of practice when it came to arousal. And I don’t mean the kind needed to summon the dead.

  As for me, as strange as it may seem, I was along for the ride as Julia learned the ropes. One could argue that it was her having sex, not me, but I saw what she saw, felt what she felt, the whole deal. We might have had two minds in there, but it was still just the one body. So, while technically I had sex for the first time with Phoenix, I wasn’t exactly new to the game. It was just my first time flying solo. Well, not solo exactly, more like alone in my own cockpit. Um, no to that one too. Let’s just say I knew which wheels to turn and which levers to pull. There’s a lot to be said for training through virtual reality.

  Despite the happy memories, I can’t help but feel a pang of guilt. I look away from that picture of me and Phoenix to the dark window of my apartment, which holds my reflection. I see a young woman, sitting alone on her sofa at night, while the sounds of a party drift up from downstairs. Literally, the picture of loneliness. Still, I don’t grab my phone and send Phoenix a text. I don’t give him a call. I continue avoiding him, as I’ve done for the past few weeks. Why?

  I guess for the same reasons I backed away to begin with. Partly, because I truly need some time alone. I’ve never had that in my life. So much happened so fast after regaining my body, that I’ve barely had time to process who I am now as an individual. Yes, my body has needs and cravings. For now, though, I let those needs go unfulfilled. Partly due to fear. Fear of committing too fast, before I have a chance to explore the world on my own. Fear of getting hurt or causing hurt. Fear of Phoenix seeing me for what I am, a lost and damaged person carrying some serious baggage. Sure, I can handle ghosts and demons, but I’m terrified that the real me will be a disappointment.

  I reach for the remote and click on the TV, thinking I’ll distract myself for a while. Another perk to living in a witch nest is the magically hijacked cable signal. A gift from Ryan, one of our housemates adept at charms manipulating electro-magnetic fields. It can be a little slow at times, not to mention ethically questionable. But, hey, it’s not like I can afford Netflix on my own. Ironically, the first thing that comes up is local news, which means it must be ten o’clock. I’m about to start scanning other channels, when a headline catches my eye. It reads, Not their child?

  Oh, no. Not this again. I really shouldn’t go there. But, like an idiot, I turn up the volume. A reporter is interviewing a woman who appears only as a silhouette to protect her identity. She must not have been comfortable discussing things otherwise.

  “So, tell me,” the reporter says. “What makes you think Danny is somehow…” She pauses, formulating her thoughts. “…different these days.”

  “Not just different,” the mothers says. “Not like he just changed. I swear he’s not the same person.”

  The camera switches to the reporter, who nods thoughtfully. “I’m sure you realize there have been other cases like this. Is it possible that might have influenced how you feel?”

  The silhouetted mother shakes her head. “Not at all. I swear. I barely paid attention to those other stories, until…” Her voice cracks and she raises her hands to her face. “Until our Danny got taken.”

  “Got taken,” the reporters says. “Can you please clarify that? My understanding is that Danny isn’t gone, that he’s still at home.”

  “But it’s not him! You have to believe me. I know my Danny, and that boy living with us isn’t our son!”

  I click to a different station, because I know the rest. Just like the others, she’ll claim that her son suddenly became withdrawn from the world, that she heard him speaking an unrecognizable language, that she saw his eyes change color. She’ll keep insisting, despite all evidence, that her son isn’t her son. Each case has been roughly the same, parents convinced that somehow their child both remains with them but has been replaced with an
other.

  The first case happened about a month ago, and at first I felt sure it had to be the Vamanec P’yrin, but Autumn and I met with Paul. He said it wasn’t them, that he’d know if it had been. Yes, my sister and I actually do have friends who are Vamanec P’yrin. Paul is one of them, as well as his daughter, Claudia. Weird, I know, but you get to know people in our line of work. I use the word “people” loosely here, of course. Paul, who’s currently residing in a nearly albino beanpole of body, was instrumental in helping me get my body back. Mostly because ending Opal’s reign of terror served his own agenda, and Paul needed veil witch magic to make that happen. So, in a way, helping me was just a byproduct of using Autumn. Remind me again why we should trust our body-snatching friend?

  I turn off the TV, because I know that trying to distract myself isn’t going to work. It’s the last thing I need, but again I think about that girl I saw in the icy realm. A chill settles over me, one that has nothing to do with the temperature, one I also suspect will remain with me for a while yet to come.

  CHAPTER 6

  To most people, Grimoire is just another “new age” book store. One of several in Carytown, Richmond’s most quirky and eclectic part of town. For those looking for a book on energy healing, Reiki, reincarnation, meditation, ghost encounters and pretty much any approach to spirituality, Grimoire is a safe bet. All in all, Grimoire is what it seems. Most of the customers don’t need to know more.

  The store’s owner is a woman named Maggie Greene. She’s middle-aged and pudgy, her face framed by curly brown hair that’s streaked with gray. Maggie has an easy smile and she’s quick to laugh. She isn’t disingenuous in any fashion, including her purpose in opening Grimoire. Maggie holds a genuine interest in the books she sells, and loves interacting with her customers. Of course, most of them don’t know that Maggie is also a seventh generation elemental witch. They also never see the Special Collection held in a room out back, books Maggie reserves solely for her fellow witches. To most customers, the store’s name is interpreted as a bit of whimsical fun. To others, it’s taken more at face value, since the Special Collection truly does offer volumes dedicated to spells, charms, wards and incantations.