Page 32 of Strike It Witch

But I did. “I’m an elemental witch. I need to live on soil that responds to me.”

She slung a towel over her shoulder. “And you think you need to get out from under Lila’s shadow.”

“Mom was far more powerful than I’ll ever be.” I worked to keep my voice calm, but an anger, a fierceness, came throughanyway. “She was a better elemental witch, a better spell witch, a better overall magical, and everyone in town knows it. The saguaros knew it. The soil knows it. Hell,I’veknown it since I was a kid.”

We stepped out onto her small porch, and I took her bags so she could lock up. “You know, sometimes we believe things as kids that don’t turn out to be true. Far as I know, there’s no Santa Claus or tooth fairy.”

“It’s not the same.”

“It is. You’re holding onto a belief you should’ve outgrown years ago. I could tell you no one thinks you’re less of a witch than Lila. I could tell you that magic emanates from you like heat off a radiator. But you won’t believe me, because you’re holding onto a lie you told yourself after what happened with that wolf shifter years ago, and you won’t let go of it.”

“It’s not a lie,” I snapped. “I told myself I was every bit as powerful as Mom and could help him. You know what happened.”

“I do. I also know why it happened and all you’ve done to make up for it.” She gave me a sad smile and took the bag back from me. “Let’s go. The wine’s getting warm.”

This was the moment.

I should tell her how I was weakening, how living on soil that hated me was sapping my magic, drop by drop. I told Ida everything. Why was this the one thing I held back?

Because you don’t want her to worry.

No. I didn’t micromanage Ida’s feelings. I didn’t trauma dump on her, but I didn’t adjust my behavior to ensure she wouldn’t have to feel a particular way. Besides, Ida was unpredictable. She rarely reacted the way other people did.

Because you don’t want her to know.

There it was. As much as I loved and trusted Ida, I didn’t want her to know. I didn’t want anyone aside from Fennel toknow, because if I said it aloud, admitted to another person that it was happening, I’d have to face it. And facing it meant confronting my own weakness.

Again.

Damn, I really didn’t like myself sometimes.

I followed silently as she led the way to the Brittons’ hot tub.

Jaqueline and Xandra, the senior couple who lived behind Ida, had installed it on their patio a few years ago. It was big enough for six as long as no one minded their outer thighs touching the person beside them.

If I’d been planning to stay in Smokethorn permanently, I’d have created a more spacious natural hot spring for the park. Working with the rock beneath the soil and the groundwater, I’d have used my magic to form a strong hydrogeological framework and encouraged the soil to allow heated water to break through.

It would take time, but I knew it was possible because I’d done it before, for an elemental coven in Tucson, Arizona. At one time, I’d thought I might even join that coven.

Then Mom called late one night and turned my whole world upside down.

Ida, Gladys, Xandra, Jaq, Trini, and I drank wine—regular, not spelled wine, thank the gods—ate snacks, told stories, and soaked peacefully in the hot tub. The music was nice—an eclectic playlist of K-pop, American Top 40, and classical—but I couldn’t help wishing for a little Linda Ronstadt, Styx, or Cheap Trick.

At eleven, I handed outpeacecharms I’d crafted with Cecil and hugged them all goodnight—giving Ida an extra-tight hug that she returned. No matter what happened, I could always depend on her to love me back.

Even when I didn’t deserve it.

Exhausted from the day and the night before, and more than a teensy bit drunk, I let myself into my trailer. I tossed my damptowel on the table and kicked off my flip-flops, my gaze zeroing in on the boysenberry wine on the counter.

Uh oh. I’d almost forgotten to give Cecil and Fennel their Valentine’s Day gifts.

Fennel wouldn’t mind, but Cecil was more demanding, and he expected to be celebrated in some small way on every major holiday. I’d found out the hard way how long he could pout after I’d neglected to acknowledge him on St. Patrick’s Day last March. Cecil had become so much a part of my life that it was sometimes hard to believe the gnome had only been with me a year.

A wolf shifter friend of mine, who’d since moved away, had called me for help with him after he’d gone full anarchist in her trailer park outside La Paloma and attacked her neighbor. I’d driven over, scooped him into a spelled bag, and taken him home.

These were the sort of jobs I did around town. Jobs too small, too annoying, too tedious for the coven to deal with. Casting highway demons into Limbo, breaking curses, repotting giant carnivorous plants, and occasionally wrangling gnomes with bad attitudes.

I’d worried about Fennel’s reaction to the mean-spirited gnome, but the cat had seemed fine with it. And Cecil had immediately taken to Fennel, which was strange, because Cecil didn’t like anyone. He tolerated Ida and me, but he hated most everyone else.

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