Page 45 of Oohs, Ahhhs, and Orbs

“What the fuck.” As I held the athame, it began to heat in my hands until I dropped it onto the counter with a sharp crash of metal to glass. “What theactualfuck,” I repeated in disbelief.

A voice that seemed to come from everywhere and nowhere all at once echoed eerily around me. “Oh, child,” it said, sounding raspy, as if it hadn’t spoken in a long time. “You’re the one I seek. And I will get two Waters witches for the price of one. How sweet.”

“Who the hell are you?” I demanded, looking around quickly, but bringing my gaze right back to the athame, not wanting to take my eyes off of it for long.

“Don’t worry, child. I will come for you soon. But you have already figured that out, haven’t you?”

“Who. Are. You?” I ground out, my fingers itching to release a spell as soon as I had the witch in sight. Unfortunately, there was no answer, and no one appeared. I lightly brushed a fingertip to the metal blade, but it was once again cool to the touch. I quickly used the cleaning cloth and picked up the athame. After wrapping the fabric tightly around the entire athame, I tucked it back into the glass case, then I sealed it with magic.

Once I was satisfied that the athame was temporarily contained, I brought my bleeding hand to my chest. Then I slowly turned to face my grandmother’s familiar. I pointed one finger at him. “You knew. All this time, youknew.” I looked around the shop in bewilderment. Then I looked back at Mortimer who was busy licking his nutsack. Gross. “You were trying to warn me, weren’t you?” Other than a disgruntled growl, he ignored me, continuing to do what cats do. “Damn it, Mortimer! You’re a fucking familiar! Surely you could have done something other than growl and hiss and yowl!”

I stomped into the back room and turned on the tap to clean the wound. I grumbled under my breath about unhinged cats that needed to learn how to communicate better, the whole time. Once the blood was rinsed away, I grabbed a clean towel to dry my hand with and stomped back into the front, glaring at thecat tower as I passed. Mortimer had moved on to napping in his favorite spot, sprawled on his back as if he were trying to soak up the nonexistent sunrays.

I snatched a healing potion off the shelf and tore the cork out with my teeth, then spit it into the small trash can under the register. As I chugged back the potion, I looked down at the wound on my hand. It was a thin slice, and that blade had been sharper than expected. Most athames didn’t need to be kept sharp enough to slice through fucking bone.

The wound was deeper at the edge of my palm as it sliced diagonally through my hand. As I stood there waiting for it to heal, my heart began to speed up as nothing happened. Blood was oozing from the wound, and I would need to rinse it again soon before the blood started to drip onto the floor.

“This can’t be happening right now,” I muttered to myself as I willed the cut to mend itself. My potions never failed. The blood continued to well up in my palm as I waited, sheer disbelief making me stare at my hand that was still not healed. I watched as if in slow motion as bright red blood rolled over the edge of my palm and down the side of my hand. It made a small splat as it hit the glass.

I stared down at the drop of blood in a near trance, hardly understanding what was happening. In all my life, I had expected to heal from virtually any injury almost instantly. First, it was Grandmother’s potions, then, when she’d taught me, it was my own that took away the pain and hurt. I didn’t usually bother with minor cuts like a papercut, but I absolutely did not hesitate to heal myself when I broke a toe on the stupid kitchen chair a couple of years ago. But scraped knees were always carefully tended to with a wipe down, a potion, and a cookie as I grew up. Never, ever had a potion failed to heal the largest hurts.

I blinked my eyes, realizing that I had been staring so long they had gone out of focus. My blood was still there, a seconddrop joining the first. The athame, wrapped in the cloth, was directly underneath the bright red, and that was when I realized something I should have picked up on the moment the voice spoke.

Not only was the athame the murder weapon, it had also been spelled. Anything it cut would remain an open wound. I didn’t know if any wound could heal from the damage it caused. I cursed out loud, realizing that I was in deep shit.

Then I froze as I remembered what else the voice of the killer had said.

Chapter

Twenty-Four

BRIDGETTE

TwoWaters witches.

No, no, no, no, no. It couldn’t be. I stumbled over to the stairs and sank down onto the bottom step.

No, no, no, no.

I dropped my head between my knees. My breathing had become so erratic that the tip of my nose was starting to tingle. I understood I was hyperventilating, so I began to take deep breaths, but it didn’t seem to be helping.

Logan and I had just started our relationship. What would he do with this information? Would he think I was trying to trap him? Would I lose him already? That was what happened with my grandmother, and in a way, that’s what happened with my mother.

I tried to think of my last menstrual cycle, but my mind was just too jumbled, and I couldn’t think of when I was supposed to start again.

“Breathe. Justbreathe,” I told myself. What was I going to do? What was Logan going to say?

I opened my eyes and saw the small, colorful area rug spread across the wooden floor in front of me. Clumsily, I stood to my feet. I wavered for a second and had to reach out to hold onto the stair railing to keep from falling back on my ass. Once I’d caught my balance, and after taking another deep breath, I took a step forward. Another shaking step brought my feet to the edge of the rug.

Bending down, I gripped the edge of the rug and tossed it to the side. There, on the floor, previously hidden, was my chalk circle. I glanced around as if in a daze, thinking about what I needed. My eyes settled on the shelf that held candles in various colors.

Quickly, I walked over, picked up a black candle, and returned to the pentagram that was drawn on the floor. Carefully, so I didn’t smudge the lines, I knelt and placed the candle in the center of the circle. Waving a finger, I lit the candle with a small spark of blue flame.

Closing my eyes, I thought of my grandmother, and I chanted the communication spell. It was only a few seconds later, but when I heard my grandmother’s voice, I nearly collapsed in relief, even though it wasn’t her. The spell I was using was similar to leaving a voicemail message, and hers was the mailbox greeting. It still felt so good to hear her voice. I needed it more than I could ever have imagined.

My mind raced with what to say. I didn’t want to worry them, even if I desperately needed some advice.

“Hello, Grandmother. Mother. I hope your trip is going well. I can’t wait to see all the pictures that you’ve taken and hear all the stories about your adventures. Everything is good here.” I wince at the blatant lie. “But when you can, return my call, please? There’s just something I need to talk to you about. It’s not an emergency! Don’t worry, everything’s fine,” I lied again. “I love you both! Blessed be.”

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