Page 70 of The Witching Hours

“Which one of us is Batman?”

“Hmmm. Correction. We’re Wonder Woman and He-Man.”

It was my turn to laugh. “There’s not a He-Man.”

“There is.”

“Come on. I know you’re lying.”

“I’m not.”

“Really?

“Really.”

“Now I’m going to have to look up He-Man.”

I started to get up, but he pulled me back. “Not tonight.”

“Okay. Not tonight,” I agreed. “But first thing in the morning.”

He laughed silently. “Want to place a bet.”

“Smart money says hell no. You always win.”

Despite my uneasiness, sleep eventually claimed me and the characters let both of us spend a series of hours checked out in blessed unconsciousness.

Two weeks passed. One of the best things about freelance is calendar flexibility. It allowed me to train with Aunt Ceija for five to six hours during the day and make up some of the missed time at night. Nick joined us on weekends to learn his “wing man” role. I had to admit that he was more magically talented than I. He picked things up right away and rarely needed repetition.

“Nick is better at this than I am,” I told Aunt Ceija. “So why can’t he be the big cheese and I’ll be his helper?”

“I don’t know big cheese, but I think I understand. We’ve been over this. You’re the one who brought them here. You’re the one who must send them back.”

I let my head fall back to, hopefully, relieve some of the tension in my neck. Trying to master magic made me feel both inadequate and stupid.

Perhaps anticipation of how much effort it would take to train me was why Daphne set the price so high. But the day finally came when Ceija pronounced me ready.

We passed my elementary school and the tributary bed that used to fill with threatening flood waters every spring before the Trinity River was dammed. We passed the 7 11 where my friends and I used to stop for treats on the way home from school. Arriving on the street where I spent my childhood prompted an unexpected flood of memories and emotions. Nick must’ve felt it. Maybe because I was so uncharacteristically quiet. The truth was that my anxiety was spiking to the point of making me short of breath. The closer we came, the worse it got.

Nick stopped the car. “Is this it?”

The trim on the house had been painted a purplish pink over the brown that had been there first. The cracking paint told the story that it had been that color for a long time. My mother’s tea roses that had thrived on either side of the front door were gone.

“Uh-huh,” I said meekly.

As I stared out the car window replaying thousands of memories in my head, I felt Nick’s hand cover my own and squeeze. “We can do this. Dynamic duo.”

Without turning towards him, I said, “Promise?”

“For sure,” he lied. “You want to stay here while I make sure the coast is clear?”

The old-fashioned saying made me smile a little. “Okay.”

I watched him walk up the driveway and across the short sidewalk to the front door. He rang the bell and stepped back. After a minute, he tried again. No one home. Good.

He’d arranged to have the house for the day and wired the agreed upon fee to the owners. They’d told him they’d be gone and where to find a hidden key.

The first thing I noticed, stepping through the front door to the tiny living room, was that the smell was different. Like someone had burned incense or regularly used too much perfume. I pinched my nose and willed myself to think about other things.

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