Page 12 of Strike It Witch

“Betty, you live in a cramped travel trailer while your mother’s three-bedroom cottage sits empty. You’ve had one foot out the door since you took over, and everyone knows it. Abandoning this place isn’t some kind of plan-B contingency—it’s your goal. So why wait? Go now.”

She didn’t offer an apology for her bluntness, and I didn’t ask for one. That wasn’t how our friendship worked.

“I’ve never lied about my intentions, Ida.”

“And I’m not asking you to. I’m asking you to go now, before you get yourself killed.”

“Do youwantme to leave?” I asked, a little hurt.

“Of course not.” She let out a long, tired sigh. “I’m your best friend, and you’re mine. Why would I want that? What I’m saying is I want you to be happy, and you aren’t happy here.”

I slammedthe Airstream door shut and inhaled a breath of cool, fresh February air. Winter in the desert southwest was sublime. It almost, but not quite, made up for the triple-digit summers.

Ida had left soon after the Siete Saguaro conversation, but not before broaching another touchy subject.

“Demon-grown belladonna is strong stuff. Aren’t you worried the person buying it will use it to poison someone?”

“It’s not only poison. When used in tinctures and charms, it can be a powerful healing agent.”

“You sure that’s how it’s going to be used by your client?”

No, I wasn’t, but I’d soon find out.

I took a sip from my third cup of coffee and headed to my garden room where my mom had once grown luscious herbs and crafted powerful charms.

Now, it was where I did those things.

Mom and I’d built the original greenhouse structure under the shade of two Kurrajong bottle trees shortly after we moved in. The walls were constructed from old windows, the floor a motley arrangement of unglazed clay tile from an artisan in Mexico. The roof was the newest addition—a tinted corrugated polycarbonate that let just enough light in.

From the outside, the room ran half the length of her cottage and was roughly six feet wide. The interior square footage varied according to its caretaker’s needs. Mom and I had layered spells to ensure the greenhouse would never run out of room.

Back then, the magic in us and in our soil had been strong enough to bend reality.

Back then, the soil beneath the park had loved my mother.

Now, Mom was gone, and the soil had turned against me. It hated me as much as it had loved her back then.

If I had one wish, it would be to have the soil here respond to me the way it had to my mom. I could power the park’s protection ward on my own, bring back the seven saguaros, bring my magic back to full-strength.

The problem withcoulds was that they sometimes turned intoshoulds, and when you thought you were owed something, you ran the risk of becoming desperate to get it. There was always someone in the shadows of the paranormal world willing to make a dark deal for a desperate witch.

And I was beginning to feel desperate.

I stopped in front of Mom’s cottage for a moment, doing my best to ignore the sharp stab of sorrow that sank into my chest.

The small house sat in the center of the property like a sun, seven trailer spaces surrounding it, beaming outward like rays.It was a protection glyph. One crafted purposely by Mom when she took over.

“Our home is both a blessing and a responsibility, mija. The soil here must be cared for and fed. Treat it well, and it will reward you with trust and magic.”

“What if I’m not strong enough to feed and protect it?” eight-year-old me had asked.

“You’ll be strong enough. All you have to do is listen.”

But she was wrong. I hadn’t been strong enough to save the saguaros or power the soil.

And I hadn’t been able to save her.

Chapter

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