Page 31 of Dream Weaver

A neighboring shop —Facet-nating Gems— shared the back lot, and a salesperson in one of their signature turquoise-and-orange T-shirts paced around with a phone glued to her ear.

“Not a single one,” she lamented. “Yes, I tried all of them, but not one of the gems charged.” She turned and paced in the other direction. “It’s as if someone switched off the vortex.”

Abby’s head snapped around.

“I can try Boynton Canyon, or I can wait until tomorrow.” She paused, listening. “I mean, the vortexes have fluctuated before, but never like this. Even my psychic reader didn’t see this coming.”

I frowned. Psychic what?

Abby’s brow creased, and she stared into the distance, then at the furrow I’d dug.

A minute ticked by, then another, as she grimly considered the earth.

I inched away. Just in case.

“Hang on a second,” she finally said, jogging inside.

I waited in the doorway as she grabbed her jacket and called to Walt. “We’ll be out for a while, okay? We need to test this ax.”

We did?

Walt didn’t so much as peep in protest — a testament to his trust in Abby.

She grabbed two things — Rich’s vintage ax and a big burlap sack — then stormed over to her car. She unlocked it, then turned to me with an annoyed look.

“Hurry up, already. And bring that ax.”

* * *

The fifteen-minute drive that followed was one of the strangest of my life. 1990s Ford Fiestas were not made for bears, and I had barely squeezed into the front seat. In my rush, I’d stood the axes on the floor between my knees. Every time the car hit a bump, I winced, picturing the damage the handles would wreak on my private parts.

Nowthatwould be a story I wouldn’t ever share around a campfire.

Abby drove in fierce concentration, not uttering a word.

I considered the situation. She could be driving to a remote location to off me for all I knew. Then again, I was the one holding an ax.

“We’re testing the ax…at the airport?” I asked as we sped by a sign.

“No.”

That was all I got for the next mile, until she turned off into a trailhead parking lot, where she parked alongside a handful of earlier arrivals. She stuck both axes in the burlap bag, then handed it to me and set off down the trail.

“Follow me.”

“Sure, boss,” I muttered, resting the ax handles on my shoulder.

I’d gone from unwelcome assistant to her personal sherpa. Did that count as a promotion?

The trail marker readAirport Mesa Vortex. I didn’t know much about vortexes, but I was sure axing them would be frowned upon. Plus, did I really want to visit a vortex with a witch?

We passed two parties coming from the opposite direction, and both gave me startled looks.

“You know how sketchy this looks?” I hissed.

“What?” Abby glanced back.

“A small, angry woman stomping away from a big guy hefting something in a burlap bag.”

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