Bump (A Witchlight Novel) Page 2

  I analysed the words. Then nodded, smiling at Leah as I let the energy of the simple spell absorb the blessing and seep into Emma’s hair. The blonde curl grew brighter and brighter until the hairs themselves were golden rays threading into the room’s amber light. When the last brazen trace was gone, I stood up. “Your blessing is done, Leah.” I looked to where she had sat. She was gone too. I glanced at the broach but made no move to pick it up. It could lie on the table a little longer, I decided, hating how weak I sounded to myself.

  CHAPTER THREE

  I left the basement storage room, opened the store and fell into the rhythm of a regular day; one with customers interested only in lamps and lighting fixtures. At three o’clock in the afternoon, I closed the store to walk to Coffee-on-Main, Leah’s blessing still on my mind. It had been light and sweet and good. So why did I feel it was a shield against something dark and that Leah had played me? White her blessing may have been, but the words had been ringing in my ears all morning. Respite rang loudest and choices nearly as potent too. All of it hinged on the last line of Leah’s blessing, the part that I had begun to feel was the most important. When you make them, your choices will be your own. There was more to Leah’s blessing than she had revealed. With every client that was almost always the case. It was still hard not being surprised by it; perhaps I just wasn’t quite jaded enough yet. Usually, I thought of that as a plus, but as a Latter Day Pessimist, I wasn’t quite so sure anymore.

  Coffee-on-Main is the only coffee shop in town as far as Livia, and I are concerned. There are always pretenders to the throne, but Whisper Falls has only one java king. That, plus it was within walking distance of both Which Light and Tangles. I stood in the line listening to the conversations spilling over me, distracting myself from the questions that had begun to arise around my recent client. I followed random bits of conversation until I reached the bar and ordered two dark chocolate iced mochas knowing that Livia would appreciate something to cool the afternoon down. I almost wished the queue was longer. I was all too soon out and heading towards Tangles with Leah back on my mind. It wasn’t fair, I thought, I should be obsessing over a girlfriend or at least finding one. Not some dead woman and her offspring.

  Erica was out when I arrived at her art boutique. The air within was hot and a little sticky. Livia was talking to a frowning older woman before a canvas splashed with summer colours and floral motifs, so I moved slowly among the paintings and a small collection of sculptures. The shop wasn’t that big, hence the ‘boutique’ on the Tangles signage outside. It was impossible not to overhear Livia trying to explain how a Welsh myth had inspired the artist and that was why the painting was titled ‘Blodeuwedd’.

  “Blood-Eh-weth,” Livia enunciated slowly for the seventh time.

  “I can’t call it that,” the older woman said. “I’ll sound like my Australian relatives.” She sounded a little disapproving. I guessed she had a swear jar in her house.

  “It means flower face,” I said interrupting, as Livia threw me a despairing glance.

  “Well that’s much better,” the woman said giving me a wide smile. “I’ll take it.”

  When the sale was complete, Livia came to stand beside me as I studied an outstretched figurine in fire mottled brass.

  “Erica is exploring summer myths for the season; it’s all a pronunciation nightmare.

  “What’s this one called?” I asked her, pointing to the little statuette.

  “Deo Ceruninco,” Livia replied, making a face. I handed her a Coffee-on-Main takeaway cup. She cradled it between her fingers and palms. “Iced mochas, you didn’t turn stingy on me after all. Your future girlfriends will appreciate that trait.”

  I avoided falling for Livia’s obvious ploy to get me talking about my love life or lack of it. I hadn’t been on a date in months and had avoided the whole subject as much as possible. This is difficult with a friend like Livia who didn’t feel that there was anything wrong with poking her nose way up into your business. It was why I suddenly found myself tense at the thought of seeing Erica face to face again. Livia was determined to see me date, even if that meant fixing me up with her boss. From her perspective, she was the one making a sacrifice. I’d had to pour ice on that idea and hadn’t realised that Erica was in the kitchenette of the small gallery. She had almost certainly overheard every last word. I turned to examine the sculpture so Livia wouldn’t see me blush.

  “I figured you could use a little internal air-con,” I said.

  Livia groaned, sipped at her mocha and nodded. “I’ve been having fond memories of your store all day, still living in deep winter as it is.”

  “Thermostat’s working again,” I commented. “Where’s Erica?”

  “Afraid she’ll jump out from behind the Chloris Elysia and demand a kiss?” Livia asked, a smirk twisting her pale pink painted lips.

  “The Chloris Elysia?” I echoed in confusion. Not letting Livia score a point for reading my thoughts almost exactly.

  In answer to my question, she pointed to the largest canvas in the gallery. Hanging in the centre of the room it was suspended on near invisible nylon threads.

  “She’s gone to a christening,” Livia continued. I wondered if she was humouring me and pretending not to notice my nervous tension. “It’s sad. A local artist, Erica’s friend, died giving birth. Her family and friends have decided to gather around the child, like a merry band of godmothers. “

  I started, eyes widening in surprise.

  “Erica does have friends…and at least half a heart,” Livia said misinterpreting my reaction.

  “No, I’m sure she does.” I frowned. It couldn’t be related to my client, could it? “It’s just that I think I heard about it; Leah’s daughter, Emma?”

  Livia shook her head. I started to relax. “It is a baby girl. Her name is Emma. Her mother was Sarah Gold though.”

  I nodded, trying to mask my confusion and the sinking feeling in the pit of my stomach. The child was named Emma. I felt certain that it was her lock of hair that had lain on my basement table this morning. Whoever Leah was, she’d been trying to protect Emma from something or someone. I had the feeling that all she’d been able to do was put it off. Delay the inevitable. Did something want Emma Gold’s soul? I hesitated. Last time I’d stuck my nose into a client’s business, they’d tried to do more than cut it off.

  “Where’s the christening?”

  “The little church on Whiteabbey,” Livia replied, then I turned the conversation to another of the canvases.

  We wandered around the small space discussing colour, and brushwork, and the almost universal mystery that was artists’ fascination with foreign or dead languages.

  I left fifteen minutes later and caught a cab to Whiteabbey Street.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  The christening was over, but there was a large table on the church lawn beyond the line of peach roses. There people were gathered. Drinking tea, and eating cake. I spotted Erica soon enough. Chunky turquoise beads clustered around her throat, and she wore a cherry blossom pink dress. Her auburn tresses were shot through with golden highlights. She’d pinned it up in a riot of curls. She looked a little like a bride standing there. That was typically Erica, I thought. The picture of a woman infatuated with surface beauty. But it was the sight of her cradling a wrapped bundle in her arms that threw my preconceptions about Livia’s boss out of the cab window.

  I hadn’t planned on getting out of the cab, but as the driver turned to me with the fare on his lips, I caught a glimpse of little Emma through her pastel blanket. Her sea-green eyes burned like lanterns in the dark. I paid the cab fare and stepped out of the car feeling conspicuously under dressed. The revelation that had driven me out was that Emma’s spark was burning.

  Everyone is born with a spark. That’s the terminology that witches use. From a few too many sleepovers in my past that I’d rather forget about, I’d learned that werewolves call it the obol, as in the coin paid to the ferryman to get the dead across
the river to their ever after. It was rather an apt description from a non-witch perspective. A spark is static energy stuck in a moment and waiting for release, which for most people happens when they die. Then that spark ignites and propels the soul from the mortal world into their ever after. I don’t know anything about the ever after, but I know a bit about sparks. When sparks ignite before death they open a whole world of new possibilities; you could say they open the door to the supernatural. That I realised was the choice that Leah had wanted Emma to have, the choice of what she did with her wakened ability. As I crossed the street to the church, Erica glanced up and looked straight at me. I sighed and made my way towards her.

  “Nilla,” she greeted me coolly, her smile steady and charismatic. I thought again of Livia’s determination to set us up. Despite what I had said to my best friend, the physical perfection that Erica radiated was appealing. Who wouldn’t be attracted to her beauty? The real reason I’d never date her, was that I preferred to date women who could see into my world, the veiled world. Erica was the last person I’d imagine capable of seeing into that old and hidden realm. Besides, I didn’t want to date someone who was only skin deep. I wouldn’t be allowed to wear my comfortable jeans for a start. “I didn’t realise that you knew Sarah. You’re a bit late for the christening.”

  I glanced down at Emma. She broke into a smile, little hands struggling with the folds of her blanket to reach out to me. I knew what she saw. She saw the witch in me, the shimmering energies that winked and danced and burned like fireflies in the night. My spark had been burning and growing since I was a child and it had made me what I was today, a natural born witch. That was something Emma could become too. If she wanted to. If she was allowed to.

  “You’ve got a fan,” Erica said.

  I cleared my throat nervously. Dammit. I hated feeling uncomfortable around anyone and walking on tiptoes had never been my way in life. To be a witch demanded a thicker skin, yet I felt naked and vulnerable around Erica. I wondered if it only had to do with what I’d said about her and the possibility that she’d overheard it. “I didn’t know Sarah, but I heard about…” It didn’t feel right talking about Sarah’s death with her daughter in Erica’s arms looking up at me. “And I thought I’d drop by on my coffee break.” I couldn’t take my eyes off Emma. Another orphan witch. “Who is going to care for her?”

  “Her father and her grandparents,” Erica nodded to an elderly couple. “They’ve got a beautiful house on Solomon Avenue with a little crab apple forest that enchants every springtime when the trees blossom. Sarah captured it perfectly in the first painting she ever sold through Tangles.” I wondered if Erica had been born with a marketing script and a silver spoon. You always felt that she was trying to sell you something or at least I did every time she spoke.

  A shadow drew over me. Emma blinked and scowled. I turned to face the woman who’d come to join us. There was a sharpness to her aura, obsidian and dark oil-slick rainbows that seemed to swallow the light around her.

  “Hello, I didn’t see you in the church,” her eyes were green like Emma’s.

  “Grace, this is Nilla Hayes, she’s a local. Nilla, this is Grace St John. Her step-brother, Simon, is Emma’s father.”

  “My half-brother,” Grace corrected. “We shared a mother.” She reached out a hand. Had it not been gloved in white lace, I would have refused it. This woman, I was certain, was why Leah had come to give Emma a respite. “What charming friends Sarah had.” Grace’s eyes were cold; winter green compared to the summer in Emma’s eyes. As I had expected, the gloves were new and carried no trace of their owner. I still felt the need to rub my hands against the back of my jeans when Grace let it go.

  “Nilla couldn’t make it to the christening; she runs and owns the little lighting shop on Main Street. Which Light.”

  Grace smiled. It reminded me of the Mona Lisa—had she been spiteful and mean. “Witch Light,” she echoed. I was certain of her interpretation. “I’ll have to come and visit before heading back to the city.” I reined back my shudder. “I’m sure we’ll see a lot more of each other. Without Sarah, I think Emma will need all the family she can get. All the strong role models we have to offer her.”

  I forced myself to smile and nod. Witch. I was willing to bet she had a big oven. Bad witch.

  Grace excused herself and disappeared into the crowd.

  “She’s beautiful, bewitching,” Erica said. “It will be good for Emma to have that kind of elegant influence in her life, although Sarah’s mother is very regal too.”

  She probably has square toes. I was glad my face was still turned away from Erica as I grimaced at the thought of the wicked witch influencing Emma’s life. There seemed little help for it though. At least the mysterious Leah had given the child a chance. I turned back to Erica and surprised myself by saying, “I think with you in her life, Emma has all the elegant role models she needs.”

  Erica blushed. It was visible even with the fine layer of cream foundation that sculpted her cheeks. “I’m glad you think so,” she said.

  For Emma’s sake, I hoped that Grace would find herself heavily occupied by whatever she did in the city. I reached out and touched Emma’s forehead with a fingertip. Her skin was so pale against my own; she seemed to glow like the Milky Way.

  “Walk in light,” I told her and wove a little charm to keep the shadows at bay. Emma’s wakened spark tickled my finger in return. I said goodbye to Erica and left.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  I looked up Sarah Gold on the internet when I got back to the store. The image on the monitor was nothing like Leah. Sarah had been wild and bohemian, her hair midnight black and piled up atop her head. Large earrings with yellow and purple glass beads hung almost down to her shoulders. Her large eyes were brown like mine but looked paler against the dark of her hair. Golden even against the accents of her eye shadow. She was nothing like a housewife, nothing like the spirit woman who’d blessed Emma. I clicked away from the photograph and fed Grace St John into the search engine. I wasn’t surprised when nothing came up. Grace would be in the shadows where she lived.

  The last hour of the working day crawled by. I spent it trying to think if there was anything more I could do for Sarah Gold’s daughter. The witchy heritage had come to Emma through her father I assumed; his half-sister was proof enough for me. I’d just crossed to the door to close the store when a charcoal grey Mercedes pulled up to the curb parking in front of Which Light and Grace stepped out.

  Shit.

  I had been expecting her to pay me a visit, but I hadn’t thought it would be so soon. I debated grabbing an emergency chocolate bar from the counter drawer under the cash machine, but Grace had already seen me. One witch scoffing chocolate in front of another was more or less an open declaration of war. Also, I wasn’t sure which of us was the stronger; Grace’s aura had been powerful, if a trifle blacker than I liked wearing mine. I hadn’t wanted to glean more and Grace’s gloved hands had insulated her from deeper scrutiny; something ironically I’d appreciated earlier.

  Grace glanced at the store sign and smirked that Mona Lisa as a dominatrix smile before it dropped from her face as she caught sight of the creepy angel lamp burning its light in the window display. The bulb seemed brighter than I remembered it. I stepped back from the door, sensing that I shouldn’t open it for Grace. I wouldn’t stop her from entering Witch Light, but I wouldn’t actively invite her in either. It felt like an advantage. I didn’t know why. Witches aren’t all knowing; we’re still mostly human.

  Grace hesitated, less certain of herself it seemed to me. It was my turn to smile. She made some internal decision and pushed the door open, the chime calling out cheerfully as though she were someone ordinary. I don’t like to think of people as ordinary, but to me, Grace would have stood out in any crowd. How she had managed to surprise me at Emma’s christening was a puzzle I’d avoided trying to piece together.

  “Nilla,” she glanced around the store with her cold, green eyes. Th
ey were not unlike the eyes of another who’d haunted me occasionally in my dreams; nightmares courtesy of a client who’d tried to kill me. His eyes had been that same cold and jealous-green. In his case payback had been my bitch and I hoped he was enjoying that as much as I had his company. I looked the bad witch in the eyes and didn’t flinch or shudder.

  “Grace,” I responded wondering at the irony of her name. Grace St John sounded apocryphal, like Joan of Arc. It didn’t sound like an introduction to the Wicked Witch of the West, yet here she was. “I didn’t think you’d visit so soon.”

  “There was no point in delaying,” Grace said, stripping her lace gloves from her hands and folding them neatly into her handbag. The hard edges of her short hair made her beauty a series of sharp angles. I doubted her toes would be square so much as triangular, coming to a sharp and deadly point. “After all, you’ve gone and made quite the godmother of yourself for our little Emma.”

  Her voice was calm, her eyes still cold and empty, but I could sense her anger.

  “It’s the least I could do,” I replied.

  Grace considered the implications of my choice of words; I could imagine her turning the phrase over mentally and pondering the thinly veiled threat. “The least,” she said, “and the last. I have my niece’s interests at heart, Nilla. Close at heart. You could say that there’s nothing closer, nothing more important to me than Emma right now. I’ll be giving her my every attention. Your little act of fairy godmothering can’t do a thing about that.” Grace glanced back at the front of the shop, before turning to me and licking her glossy red lips. “Since we’re of a kind I thought I’d let you know.”

  I understood the warning. Perhaps whoever had named Grace had got at least one thing right. She was Miss Manners. If Miss Manners was a predator waiting for a chance to eat you all up. Politely of course and with napkins.