Page 33 of Strike It Witch

I poured a measure of wine into a small shot glass, opened the fridge to grab the plate of salmon I’d picked up after my meeting with Sexton, and headed to the garden room. As long as I made it before the close of day, Cecil should be satisfied.

The door was cracked open, a rock keeping it from closing, allowing cool, dry air to flow into the room. Cecil was a lot of things—nihilist, extortionist, climate rabble-rouser, to name afew—but above all else, he was a master gardener. He wasn’t an earth witch, but he did have magic and enough horticultural knowledge to fill a library. If the door was open, it was because the plants needed it.

I went inside, set the wine on Cecil’s worktable and the salmon near Fennel’s empty bed. The cat often roamed at night, so it wasn’t unusual for him to be gone at this hour.

“Happy Valentine’s Day, Cecil and Fennel,” I sang. My voice echoed through the room.

A lavender flower broke free and drifted to the floor beneath the planter. I picked it up, held it to my nose, and drew in a deep breath. With my other hand, I dug into the soil, my fingers stroking the plant’s roots with gentle magic.

“Thank you.” I felt the soil’s joy at my touch. It hugged my hand, sending a feeling of gratitude through me.

Thiswas the relationship I wanted with the soil I lived on. This was how it was supposed to be.

I extracted my hand, tucked the lavender into the waist of my bathing suit, since I had no pockets, and headed to the door—stopping short with a gasp when I saw what Cecil had done.

Roofing nails hammered into the windowsills around my workstation were crowded with new pressed-glass botanical charms, all of them exuding so much peace I felt it from a foot away. The gnome must’ve worked all day and into the evening to finish so many in such a short time. The cousins at the Desert Rose Café were going to love them.

“Thank you, Cecil,” I said, touched.

I left the door cracked and walked back to my trailer. Unlike the soil in the planter, the dirt beneath my bare feet ignored me. It showed no joy at my touch, only disappointment and anger.

The feeling was mutual.

“Betty?” The voice was deep, male, and familiar. It sent delicate shivers up and down my spine—and into a few other parts of me.

“Ronan?”

Sure enough, Ronan Pallás stood in the shadows by the mailboxes.

“I’ve been trying to call you all night. I was starting to think you were avoiding me.”

“So, you just showed up like a stalker weirdo?That’snot creepy at all,” I said, with a heavy measure of sarcasm.

“I’m not stalking you. I have news about Gladys. You said to let you know.”

“At nearly midnight?”

“I run a bar. You know I keep strange hours. I was under the impression you did the same.”

I did, though I’d been hoping to get into bed before midnight tonight.

“What did Papa Pallás have to say about Gladys?” I asked, not expecting much.

Ronan growled at the invisible barrier keeping him from coming any closer. “I’m not going to have this conversation from the other side of a protection spell. Let me in or come over here. Or meet me tomorrow afternoon when it might be too late. Up to you.”

“Hang on.” I studied a pile of rocks at my feet. I selected a gray one, resting it against my lips as I chanted a spell into it. Thankfully, it didn’t take much magic, because I had next to nothing left. Gods, I needed sleep.

“Here.” I tossed it to Ronan, who barely managed to catch my terrible throw.

He held up the rock. “What’s this?”

“A key. It’ll allow you inside. For now.”

“This won’t take long.” He took a tentative step across the barrier, and after experiencing no resistance, walked up to my front door with me.

“Good, because I’m a little soused, a lot tired, and I have no patience for wolf bullshit tonight.”

“You and me both—except for the soused part. Cool bathing suit, by the way. You look like one of the women they painted on the nose of World War II bombers. Is there a pool around here?”

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